


The Spark

by holdinginfinity



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-26
Updated: 2015-03-03
Packaged: 2018-03-09 03:06:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 65,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3233969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/holdinginfinity/pseuds/holdinginfinity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles doesn't know what King Peter Hale is up to, but he does know that he doesn't like it. Especially when it interferes with his dreams of knighthood. How can Stiles complete his squirehood when Duke Derek can't seem to decide if he likes Stiles or hates him? Who the hell are the Argentum? Why does everyone keep calling him The Spark? And how in the name of the Almighty is he going to get Derek to take his shirt off more often?</p><p>Medieval AU. The squire system is loosely based on Tamora Pierce's Alanna/Keladry books.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Oooookay so I've already put upwards of 150 hours of work into this story. I started over a year ago. I'm gonna say it's like...half written? I'm hoping that posting a few chapters on here will motivate me to continue writing more often. Anyways. Please enjoy. I make no promises about these early chapters; I may even edit them extensively when I near the end of the story.

Peter Hale enjoyed opulence. He liked to surround himself with reminders of his wealth. He bathed in rosewater, ate only the finest cuisine, and demanded the most luxurious clothing available. And this was all well and good, but the one thing he enjoyed more than money was power. As king, he had a considerable amount of power.

And, being Peter, he was always looking for opportunities to expand his power.

He recognized that the kingdom was too unstable to support military conquest. Arcadia wasn’t necessarily experiencing a civil war, but there was a considerable amount of civil unrest. So, he stepped down a notch and looked for power with simpler means: magic.

The Hale line wasn’t particularly thick with sorcerers, but Peter had somehow inherited a sizeable amount of magic. He also had the strength of mind to use it. He’d spent many a day poring over archaic tomes and scrolls, looking to increase his knowledge and to learn more spells.

A few weeks ago, he’d discovered a spell for magical influence. He’d first tested it on his least favorite member of the council, a shrewd rat of a man named Wenham. At first, Peter had been disappointed. Wenham was still the unpleasant, nitpicking little piglet that he’d always been. However, the Council had called a meeting a week or so after Peter cast the spell. The topic was something irrelevant and boring—the international tariff on grains or some such. Naturally, Peter was disinclined to listen to anything the council members had to say.

Eventually, it came time for him to make a decision, though. He favored increasing the tariff, so that farmers were forced to buy grain domestically. The Council was outraged almost as a whole. Four of its twenty members grew red in the face, while five of them scowled into their laps. Ten of the others were more adept at hiding their discontent.

Wenham, on the other hand, argued in support of Peter. He was so eloquent and persistent that he persuaded some of his fellows to join him. There were enough turncoats that the 3/4 vote necessary for vetoing Peter’s law was not met.

Of course, Peter was very interested in these proceedings.

When he retired that evening, he wondered what would happen if he cast the spell more than once on the same person. He wondered if he could cast it from afar. He wondered what would happen if interwove the incantation with parts of another spell meant for animation of a golem—could he control the subject’s physical movements? Was the subject aware? If not, at what point would they become aware? How long did the spell last, once it was cast?

It was all very interesting, indeed.

 

Stiles held a roughly hewn necklace. The pendant was simple stamped leather, embellished with wooden studs. It was the Stilinski family crest, a coat of arms he was entirely certain had been physically engraved in his brain by this point. It featured a griffin, orange and gold. He wrapped the worn leather string tightly around his fingers, waiting until they throbbed, and then unraveled it. He flexed his hands, fingering the ridges. Then he began to rewrap his fingers.

Today was the day. His education as a page had come to a close a week ago, with so much pomp and ceremony that he’d forgotten for a second how little he meant in the grand scheme of things. Unfortunately, he’d also forgotten that hugging the schoolmaster wasn’t proper etiquette. And now Scott wouldn’t let anyone forget just how vivid poor Finstock’s shock was.

Pain tingled through his fingers, fizzling around the tips. He unwrapped them hurriedly, rubbing at the maroon skin. He donned the necklace once more, figuring that he could never be a knight if he lost his fingers. Though a few veterans with missing digits did come to mind, now that he thought about it. After another moment of thought, he supposed it was entirely possible to be a knight without fingers, though his life would suddenly be much more difficult.

He shifted restlessly on his cot, then stood and paced. A few minutes later, he found himself chewing on his fingernails; he thrust his hands into his pockets before continuing his manic pacing, limited by the narrow confines of his bedroom.

Finally, _finally_ , he heard the pounding of boots in the hall. He ran to the door and wrenched it open, grinning expectantly. Scott was caught completely off-guard. His fist, poised for knocking, introduced itself to the corner of Stiles’s jaw, and Stiles reeled back, clutching at his face.

“Oh gods! I’m so sorry, Stiles! Stiles? Are you all right?” Scott was panting and making abortive movements, as if he wanted to touch Stiles but was unsure if he would cause even more damage. Stiles wiped at his watering eyes—he must be allergic to something, because it _certainly_ wasn’t the pain—and cleared his throat before he forced himself to look up at Scott.

“Pox and rot,” Scott cursed. “That looks like it hurts. I’m sorry, Stiles.”

Stiles experimentally opened his mouth, carefully shifting his jaw around. None of his teeth had been knocked loose, but the metallic tang of blood filled his mouth. Scott met his eyes, looking as if he was in as much pain as Stiles was.

Stiles grinned weakly, wincing as the entire right side of his face throbbed. It felt swollen and red, like a giant bee sting. “Now that my jaw is uneven, even more people will mistake us for brothers,” he joked.

Scott beamed back. “We’re brothers already, you great lout. Now, we’ve got to get to the dining hall. The ceremony is beginning soon!”

Anxiety jolted through Stiles, settling in the pit of his stomach. He nodded. Before he left, he rinsed the blood from his mouth and splashed chilled water across his face. They turned to exit Stiles’s small room. The squire locked the door behind him, pocketing the key, and then they were off, pounding through the castle’s halls.

The palace was a mess of stone halls and secret passageways. Every hundred or so years, the monarch in power would expand it by another wing, adding to its chaotic marriage of different architectural styles.

They pulled up short just before the grand hall’s entry. Pausing beside the ornate arch, they straightened each other’s tunics and patted down stray hairs. Scott brushed his knuckles against the sore spot on Stiles’s jaw, mouthing “sorry” one more time.

Stiles shrugged. “Is it noticeable?”

Scott looked uncomfortable, as if weighing the benefits of a reassuring lie or the truth. He shrugged, quirking his mouth a little. “It’s…Uh…”  
Stiles decided to spare him the embarrassment of trying to find a proper end for that sentence. “Your penance is being first to enter,” he muttered and shoved Scott through the arch. Scott stumbled but composed himself, kneeling to the king and bowing low to the wide semi-circle of knights. He moved with a practiced grace that Stiles never could match. Then he joined the line of squires, squaring his shoulders and gazing fixedly at the floor.

Stiles entered moments after Scott did, but somehow he caught the brunt of Marquis Finstock’s disapproval. The Marquis leaned over to whisper something into his assistant’s ear. His assistant—Greenberg, was it?—nodded at Finstock and met Stiles’s gaze with an enigmatic smile.

For a moment, Stiles stood dumbfounded—what had Finstock said? Was he commenting on Stiles’s face or his tardiness? Oh gods oh gods oh gods. A gentle cough from King Peter reminded him of his place, and Stiles dropped to one knee so quickly that he knew there’d be a bruise to show for it. He thought he heard some coughs that could be taken as badly disguised laughter. He bowed his head a moment longer than was strictly necessary, hoping to convey his apology. Then he rose and pivoted, aiming an all-encompassing bow to the assembly of Arcadia’s greatest warriors.

Stiles then retreated, standing beside Scott. He couldn’t stare at the floor like he was supposed to, however. The dining hall was so ornately furnished that he found something new to examine every time he came. Last time he spent a solid fifteen minutes tracing the detailing of a column. The time before that, he counted and recounted the number of chandeliers and their respective number of candles (11 chandeliers each with 245 candles, except for the largest one, which hung directly over the monarch’s seat and had 670).

Today, it was the king’s throne that arrested his attention. It was carved of a single slab of smoky black rock, reflective and glassy, and fitted with dark velvet cushions. The pinnacle of the throne’s arch held a giant opal. Even from this distance, he could see the swirls of orange and emerald, scarlet and navy, chips of gold and the palest silver. It was at the back of the great room, framed by wide, glass windows, and stood facing the long tables and benches.

King Peter rose from his seat, commandeering Stiles’s attention. He blinked once at the interruption of his focus, then he met Peter’s predatory gaze. Unease slithered along Stiles’s spine, making the hairs on the nape of his neck rise. He felt singled out and stripped to the bone; there was no denying the gravity of Peter’s rule. Stiles looked away, tracing his eyes along the assembled knights. Around fifty, all clad in various amounts of chainmail and fire-hardened leather armor.

They had gathered today at Peter’s request. Of course, the request was a simple formality, adhesion to a tradition as old as the kingdom itself. These knights were the elite, known as the King’s Guard. They’d been nicknamed the Wolf Pack, however, because of their reputation for loyalty to each other and the ruthlessness with which they carried out the king’s commands. The Pack was led by Duke Derek Hale, the king’s nephew and next in line to the throne. Derek’s mother had reigned as queen for years, before meeting a sudden and unexpected death. Peter had stepped up to the throne; Talia’s heir, Laura, was still not of age.

Laura died a tragic death a week before her eighteenth birthday. Her death was shrouded in secrecy. There were a hundred rumors—poison, murder, a hunting accident, a fever that wouldn’t break—but no one knew anything for certain. That was eight years ago, though. Stiles, for his own part, had still been lost in a personal grief-haze that left him nearly unaware of his immediate surroundings, let alone the kingdom’s happenings.

Stiles’s gaze alighted on the Duke, who was remarkably like a marble statue. His expression was as cold and blank as any of the busts found throughout the castle. He stared stoically into the middle distance, shifting every so often. He wore a shirt of fine silver chainmail that fit his broad shoulders like a glove. Something about his movements struck Stiles as familiar, but he couldn’t place a finger on it until Derek pulled at his collar, just like Stiles had done a moment ago. It was discomfort, anxiety, that drove Derek’s movements. He wanted to be here just as much as Stiles did.

Peter spoke, then, redirecting Stiles’s attention to him once more.

“Gentlemen and lads. And lady,” he nodded at Greenberg—who politely inclined her head—before he continued. “Today is a new chapter in all of our lives. Squires, you have been chosen because you have been deemed the best of your class. You bring honor to your families simply by being here. Today you will acquire a mentor. For the next four years, your every waking thought will be to the benefit of your mentor. You will accompany them on their travels, assist them in all ways possible, and learn the ways of the King’s Guard. My beloved Wolf Pack, you will be training your newest companions. These squires are yours to mold as you choose. At the end of the four years, they will become your comrades, rather than your squires. The bonds that these four years forge are unbreakable, stronger than even ties of blood.” Peter had always been eloquent, and he embellished the ancient speech with graceful hand gestures. Stiles couldn’t help but watch the movement of his ring-clad fingers.

“Count Alexander of Tirragen,” intoned the king. A dark-haired knight stirred, shouldering his way toward the throne. He kneeled before Peter, a hand resting on the sheathed sword at his hip.

“My liege?”

“You may choose a squire.”

Alexander sauntered to the line of squires, eyeing each candidate. Stiles, at the end of the line, sighed in frustration. He would, no doubt, be one of the last picked. Alexander was not hurried in his evaluation of the boys; time seemed to drag for hours before he finally got to Stiles.

His glance was fairly dismissive by then. He had already chosen his squire. Stiles knew that Alexander was only checking to see if there was anything outstanding about him. Alexander’s gaze raked over him quickly, and he began to turn away. Then he turned back with the slightest crease between his eyebrows. His blue eyes were on Stiles’s jaw, where an undoubtedly spectacular bruise was beginning to form. He met Stiles’s gaze and nodded, smirking.

“Your name?” His voice was hushed, but not timid.

“Stiles. Stiles Stilinski.” An automatic response. As soon as he said it, Stiles wondered if he should have told the count his actual name.

But Alexander turned back to Peter and opened his mouth to speak. “Your majesty, my choice for squire is—“

“Not him.”

At first, Stiles was confused as to who the voice had come from. No one stepped forward to lay claim to the reproof. All the knights gazed at Stiles with incredulity, then turned and began to murmur amongst themselves.

Peter clapped his hands, one eyebrow rising. “Who protests Count Alexander’s choice?”

“I do,” echoed around the room, and Duke Derek Hale stepped forward. He stood before Peter, offering a short bow—barely deep enough to meet formality’s requirements—and then inclined his head to Alexander. The count gritted his teeth and bowed to his commander and duke.

“Why, Duke Derek Hale, do you protest the Count’s choice for squire?” Peter queried, a strange glint in his blue eyes.

“That boy is not fit to be a squire. His face has been bruised in a fight.” Derek did not once look at Stiles, whose mouth had dropped open in indignation.

“Is this true?” Peter’s gaze unhurriedly flicked to Stiles, evaluating the blossoming contusion on the boy’s face.

“No,” Stiles spat, infuriated past manners. How _dare_ he? He had no right, interfering like this. This was Stiles’s future. His dream. He was _this close_ to becoming a member of the King’s Guard, and this giant craven lout had to step in because of a blemish on his face? No. _No._

A rash of raised eyebrows greeted Stiles’s comportment. Scott kicked at Stiles’s ankles, silently urging repentance.

“You would do well,” Derek muttered, not even bothering to look at him, “to address your superiors with respect, especially considering the impact that this conversation has on your immediate future.”

King Peter did not look particularly offended. The unidentifiable glimmer in his eyes had intensified as he scrutinized first Stiles and then his nephew.

“Young squire,” he began, “I’m sure you are aware that fighting that is unsanctioned by your training masters is not tolerated. As it has been over a week since you last practiced for your masters, this bruise is undoubtedly not caused by that. Have you practiced with any of your peers since then?”

Stiles’s heart hammered against his ribs, but his voice was unwavering. “No.” He should have tacked on a “your majesty” or “my liege” but he was caught up in the moment, too full of adrenaline and righteous anger on his own behalf to spare the extra syllables. He hadn’t excluded the king’s title out of spite, though. He also failed to cite that squires were allowed to train on their own time. Apparently the problem he’d often faced as a child—his brain not being quite up to speed with his mouth’s decisions—had not been resolved by time.

Derek spun immediately, stalking up to Stiles. The face of marble, the face of cold and perfect planes was suddenly mere inches from his own. Stiles couldn’t breathe for Derek’s sudden nearness; he almost gasped aloud. A gauntleted fist caught the collar of his tunic and dragged him even closer. Stiles’s toes scraped against the ground. But Stiles retained his pride, and his hands stayed fisted at his sides. He refused to scrabble at Derek’s hands; that would be giving in. Peter’s rings flashed distractingly in his peripheral vision.

“If I must repeat myself once more, squire, mine will be the last words you hear. Show respect to your king. Do you understand?” He punctuated his question by shaking Stiles once, like one would jerk the collar of a misbehaving dog.

Stiles could not breathe well enough to formulate an answer. He did not even pretend to try. He stared into Derek’s stone face, into his ice-crystal eyes, and tried to convey all the contempt he felt. For a moment he could swear Derek’s eyes gleamed red.

“Derek, my dear boy, I have come to a decision.” King Peter sounded horribly pleased with himself and this violent turn of events. His eyes were on Stiles, though the squire was now unable to see past Derek’s stubbled face.

“Yes, my king?” Derek turned to face Peter without releasing Stiles. The motion made Stiles a little queasy. Black swirled around the edges of his vision. He blinked, trying to clear them. Derek’s ear was the only thing Stiles could see; the edges of his dark hair wavered with every shallow pant Stiles managed.  
“The squire is too valuable to be wasted. I believe you should take him as your own squire so that he receives proper education and punishment befitting his actions.” Peter’s voice left a strange ringing in Stiles’s ears.

“Your majesty, with respect, I believe the best decision would be to send him back to his family.” Derek showed no sign of strain, despite the fact that he was still manhandling Stiles. The squire’s hands feebly scrabbled at the older man’s wrist, desperately attempting to get him to loosen his grip. His pride was less important now than the necessity for air. Derek’s fingers automatically tightened—a reflex response, no doubt. No one was that cruel. Then again, the duke didn’t exactly have a reputation for kindness.

“Nephew, this boy is one of the most intelligent that Marquis Finstock has ever taught. He excels at problem-solving and logic. His hand-to-hand combat skills continue to improve at a rapid pace. He works well under pressure and has shown exceptional leadership skills. He shows promise to follow in his father’s footsteps. We simply cannot let him slip through our fingers.”

A strangled cry burst from Stiles’s mouth, and the entire room lurched dizzyingly around him. Derek released him immediately, and Stiles sank to the plush carpet, coughing uncontrollably.

“Gods, Derek, you almost killed him,” Peter exclaimed. Stiles felt gentle fingers on his back, a soothing hand on his shoulder. Thinking it was Scott, he nodded his thanks. When he looked up, however, he found himself staring into Peter’s dancing blue eyes.

“Thank you….” He panted. “…Your highness.”

Peter’s grin was both predatory and radiant. He turned to face Derek, who had not looked in Stiles’s direction since Peter had interjected. Stiles tried not to let that bother him.

“Derek, it looks like there _is_ hope for your teaching skills yet.” Peter told him.

Derek nodded as if accepting a death sentence.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the love, you guys! It truly means a lot to me. I hope you enjoy this chapter. <3

Stiles’s neck was an ugly purple mess. Shades of violet melted into blue-green and yellow around the edges. The bruises were shaped like fingers. Stiles winced as his probing touch brushed a particularly sensitive spot.

Scott thumped into his room, everything about him morose. “Stiles?” He asked.

“What?”

After a few moments of silence, Stiles turned to look at his friend. Scott had seated himself on Stiles’s cot. His eyes were watering and he held his clenched fist against his mouth. He coughed, trying to clear his throat as he felt Stiles look at him.

“I…I’ll miss you,” He finally got out, the words barely audible.

“Scott,” Stiles sighed, lazily draping himself onto the meager mattress, leaning hard against his friend. “This isn’t goodbye. We’ll see each other still. Every year. If for nothing else, then for the Midwinter Feast.” Every winter, Peter invited all the nobles of the kingdom to join him for a feast. The festivities were accompanied by copious gift-giving on everyone’s part. The holiday lasted ten days. As pages, they’d been tasked to serve the knights and their squires. That often lead to public embarrassment. This year, however, their responsibilities would be only to their mentors’ personal needs.

Scott didn’t say anything, just turned and buried his face in the space between Stiles’s neck and shoulder. Stiles rubbed his back soothingly, bowing his head when he felt Scott’s body shake with sobs. It was hard for him, Stiles knew, being away from his mother. Scott was closer to Lady Melissa than most boys were to their mothers; a necessity forced upon them by his father’s absence. And now Scott was losing his best friend? Stiles knew it was as hard for Scott to be away from Stiles as it was for Stiles to be away from Scott.

Stiles’s neck began to throb, though, protesting the continued abuse. He pulled away from Scott, holding him at arm’s length.

“Scott. You’ll be spending so much time learning from Deaton that you won’t think of me at all. He’s a good man, with much to teach you.” Stiles smiled reassuringly. His face hurt, though, so his smile was a little twisted.

Scott nodded, swiping at his eyes. “You’re right, of course. But gods, Stiles, how will _you_ survive? The duke might just end up killing you.”

Stiles felt himself pale a little. Duke Derek had spent the day checking his squire’s weapons and providing Stiles with any he did not have. Because Stiles was riding with the commander of the Wolf Pack, he was held to a higher standard than the other boys. The duke had been as cold as the northern mountains while he checked Stiles’s weapons. His parting words were instructions for Stiles to pack his things and meet him in the stables tomorrow at dawn. They were to ride out to the Hale holdings, so that Stiles could acquaint himself with the household. Stiles would receive his training there. Derek had delegated direct command of the Wolf Pack to his second, choosing to focus on Stiles’s training rather than leading the King’s Guard. Whether or not they travelled after the initial training had been completed would be up to Derek—or Peter. If the king fancied having the commander of his Wolf Pack travel, the commander of his Wolf Pack would travel.

“Why didn’t you just listen to him, Stiles? You could have had Alexander of Tirragen as a mentor. Gods! They say his wit is as sharp as the Argentum’s arrows. What a duo you would have been.” Scott shook his head slightly, the slightest of smiles on his lips.

“I’m the most dimwitted of us all, aren’t I?” Stiles asked aloud, as he recounted his actions. “Derek could have had me whipped for my insolence. I could’ve been sent home. I can’t believe myself.”

Scott nodded along. “Has His Grace given you a punishment yet?”

“None. I shudder to think of what he has in mind.” Stiles rested his chin on his hands, slumping unhappily. Scott slung an arm around his shoulders.

“I have something for you,” he announced, and began to rummage in his pockets. Stiles perked up immediately.

“Food?”

With a roll of his eyes, Scott produced something small and dark. A wide, flat stone, smooth as a river rock. It was dark and shining, carved of the same smoky black rock as Peter’s throne. Engraved on it was an intricate design that combined the McCall family crest—a phoenix in scarlet and gold—and the Stilinski family griffin. There was a hole in the top, where a string could be threaded through. Carved onto the back in golden script was a stylized word that could be read as either _Stilinski_ or _McCall._ Stiles met Scott’s gaze, unable to speak. Then he swallowed with difficulty, removing the necklace with his own family crest from his neck and untying the knot. His hands shook, so he couldn’t thread it himself. He passed the necklace to Scott, who added the stone onto the string with ease.

Stiles retied the necklace and thumbed the smooth pendant. He looked back up at Scott.

“I love you, Stiles,” Scott said, throwing his arms around his best friend.

“I love you, too,” Stiles replied, the break in his voice muffled by Scott’s shoulder.

 

They parted with some more subtle sniffles and covered-up coughs. Scott made sure that Stiles remembered where Deaton’s holdings were, so that they could meet if Derek was near the area. Stiles had gotten Scott a new pair of fine riding gloves, lined with rabbit’s fur—“For luck: you’ll need it,” Stiles winked—and a pair of shining gauntlets that slid neatly over them. Scott was beside himself with joy. Not that that was anything unusual; he lived life in a perpetual state of excitement.

Stiles continued packing slowly. His meager belongings consisted of a few tunics, trousers, various knickknacks from his and Scott’s adventures, a journal, an excellently wrought dagger his father had sent him for his last birthday, a sword he had forged with his own hands, a lead-core baton (courtesy of Lady Melissa), and the set of weapons Derek had provided him with.

It took him hours to finish.

He stood before the open window that night, unable to sleep. The moonlight was dreamy, and the spring air was cool on his skin. He felt like he was looking at the world from behind gossamer; everything was softened: a little hazy and much less intense. The future seemed to loom less ominously than it had a few hours ago. His neck periodically reminded him that the world was not as gentle as it seemed.

Everything felt sluggish. He thought he would be hyper charged with energy, unable to sit still. Instead, he examined the window sill with a sort of lethargic curiosity.

How would Derek punish him for his behavior? Would _Peter_ punish him? Why did Derek interfere in Alexander’s choosing? Why had Alexander been so interested in him in the first place? He considered all of this as he lazily explored the window sill by touch. His fingers encountered a rough patch, and he thumbed it for a few moments before recognizing the feeling of writing. Stooping to get a closer look, he discovered a neat _DH_ scrawled beside an elegant _PH._ A crown hovered over both sets of initials.

That wasn’t—

…Was it?

Stiles frowned. It seemed unlike Derek to vandalize the palace. And what were Peter’s initials doing there? If they’d been pages, what were the chances of them sharing a room? And then Stiles having the same room? Then he shrugged. It probably wasn’t even those two—they’d have better things to do than carve their names into the window sills of the page quarters.

He continued to rub his fingers against the irregular carvings as he stared at the night sky, considering.

 

Dawn began to lighten the sky before he had more than a few hours of sleep. He woke immediately, and readied himself—splashing water on his face, glancing in the mirror, pulling on his boots, and buckling the sheathed dagger to his belt. Then he shouldered his pack, and, leaving the key on the counter beside the washing basin, left the room for the last time. Servants had already taken some of his belongings to a suite in another wing, next to Derek’s rooms. The squire and his master would live there when they stayed at the castle. The rest of their belongings were going with them to the Hale manor. What he carried on his back were only travel necessities.

He hurried down to the stables, knowing what was coming next. Derek would want his horse groomed and tacked. To his surprise, when he arrived, the duke was chatting amiably with one of the stablehands. They seemed to be good friends, Derek even offering something like a smile as the boy joked.

As Stiles approached, he rethought that description. The stablehand was near his own age, with clear blue eyes framed by waving golden hair. A hit among the ladies, no doubt. The two younger men nodded formally at each other.

Derek’s face immediately closed off as he saw Stiles. He orchestrated quick introductions, however. The hand’s name was Isaac.

“We will choose a horse for you.” Derek said, stalking off down one of the rows of stalls. Stiles looked to Isaac, who shrugged. Stiles hastily scampered after Derek, who hadn’t slowed.

Derek paused before a huge black horse with intelligent brown eyes. He brushed aside the stallion’s forelock as the horse nosed his fingers in a familiar way. Stiles glanced at the plaque. _Gailavira._

“A mare?” He asked aloud, forgetting proper manners _again._ Luckily, Derek didn’t seem to mind this time.

“Yes.”

“Why, sir?” Sir was good, but “Your Grace” was proper for a duke, he reminded himself.

“Mares obey commands in the presence of other mares. Stallions do not.” Derek was brusque as he stepped into the horse’s stall and grabbed a brush. This was his horse?

“I can do that, Your Grace,” Stiles said, starting forward.

Gailavira’s ears immediately went flat against her neck, and she snorted at him.

“No, you can’t,” Derek answered; Stiles might have detected a bit of smugness in his tone. But Derek was facing away from him so he wasn’t sure. The muscles of his wide back rippled as he gave the mare a quick brushing.

Stiles sighed and backed away a step. The mare’s ears relaxed, one swiveling back to Derek and the other perked in Stiles’s direction. He wasn’t sure what to do, so he stood twiddling his thumbs.

“What are you waiting for?” Derek asked.

“Um—“ Stiles started.

“Go choose a horse.” Derek had picked up the mare’s hooves and was scraping clots of dirt from them. “Useless groom,” he muttered under his breath, “I should have Isaac out on the streets. He didn’t scrape your hooves, did he, Gail?”

“Your Grace?” Stiles asked. His voice wavered a little, embarrassingly.

“Choose a horse, Stilinski. These horses are all Hale property. I suggest a mare, but you may exercise your best judgment. You will need my final approval, of course.” Derek grunted as he shifted hooves, moving a little further away. He said something more, but it was quiet, and Stiles suspected it had more to do with Isaac the stablehand’s failures than it did with him.

Stiles’s brain worked for a moment longer, and then he realized this was obvious. He needed his own horse—he couldn’t share one with Derek. At the end of his four years as a squire, he’d return the horse. Derek would probably lend him tack, as well. Derek wasn’t _giving_ him the horse, as Stiles had thought. It was a loan.

So Stiles turned away and wandered down the row. Most of the horses were friendlier than Gailavira had been. They nickered curiously at him, or extended a friendly muzzle to him as he passed. He paused beside a few, but none of them seemed to have the same spark of intelligence that Derek’s dark mare had.

He turned the corner and continued down that aisle. Finally, he stopped beside the stall of a mare whose coat was a rich brown. Her mane and tail were, curiously, flaxen. The plaque beside her stall proclaimed her name as _Vespera._ A small star was engraved behind the final letter.

He cautiously extended his hand, allowing her to smell him before he tried to pet her. She lipped at his hands and her soft muzzle delighted him.

“Hello, Vespera. A beautiful name for a beautiful girl, eh? Would you like to come on an adventure with me? I think we’d make an excellent duo. We’ll slay all manner of beasts and rescue beautiful damsels while looking positively dandy.” He continued to murmur nonsense as he stepped inside her stall, always touching her body. She was young and strong, barely old enough to be broken in.

Derek found him a few minutes later, and for a moment Stiles thought he saw his brows raise in surprise. Then the heavy, stoic expression returned to his face and he asked, “Is this your choice?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Stiles replied as Vespera’s whiskers tickled against his neck. He twitched but did not push her away.

“You need tack for her, then.” Derek began to walk down the aisle, toward the back of the stable. Stiles hastily exited Vespera’s stall, scrambling after his mentor. The tack room was neatly organized. It all belonged to the Hale family, and was all the highest quality money could afford.

“Make your choice.” Derek said, gesturing to three of the four walls. The last one had name tags next to the tack— _Gailavira_ was one of them. Derek easily hefted the saddle. Stiles draped Gailavira’s reins over it and Derek nodded his thanks. After checking to see that none of the tack was specific to Vespera, Stiles reached for what he thought was the shabbiest of the saddles and the reins hanging over it (and even these were each a year’s worth of earnings for a middle class family), but Derek stopped him.

“Not those. Choose something better.”

This did not sit well with Stiles, who didn’t want to repay a fortune to the Hales if he ruined the tack. However, his neck was a fair reminder of what would happen to him if he ignored Derek’s instructions. So he moved on to a black leather saddle with matching reins. The set was plain, but of excellent quality. He looked at Derek for permission, only touching them when Derek nodded his approval.

He also swiped a creamy saddle blanket for Vespera, and, seeing that Derek had forgotten to grab Gailavira’s blanket, he took that as well. Beside the door frame, he noticed a small box of sugar cubes. He popped one in his mouth, and took a few more, almost dropping his load of tack for the trouble. Then he followed Derek back to the imperious black mare’s stall and hefted his saddle in the older man’s direction. Draped across it was Gailavira’s crimson saddle blanket.

Derek took it without a word and spread it over the mare’s broad back. He turned his back to Stiles as he worked, and Stiles took it as a dismissal.

Vespera whuffed happily in his face as he returned. He mumbled nonsensically to her as he gave her coat a speedy brushing, and then placed the saddle blanket on her. She inhaled as he heaved the saddle onto her, her sides expanding. All too aware of the misfortune of falling for this trick, Stiles poked her ribs until she exhaled, and then quickly tightened the girth around her. She huffed, but allowed it.

He looped around to her front, extending the bridle to her. She snorted, turning her head away. Stiles sighed, and dug around in his pocket. He came up with one of the sugar cubes he had taken earlier, and Vespera’s eyes fastened on the treat.

He extended the bridle to her again, and she turned her face again. Shrugging, he put the bridle on himself, draping it over his face. Then he ate the sugar cube, crunching merrily.

Vespera snorted at him.

He grabbed another sugar cube and then offered the bridle to the mare. She moved toward it, opening her mouth for the bit. Stiles grinned and looped it over her ears, fastening it before she could change her mind. He gave her two sugar cubes and rubbed her nose.

“What a good girl you are,” he crooned.

When he turned, he found Derek watching him. Gailavira stood behind him, eyes also on him. His cheeks colored a little, but he didn’t say anything as he led Vespera out of her stall. He hadn’t done anything wrong. Just something that made him look like a fool.

“Hold her,” Derek instructed as he dropped Gailavira’s reins. Stiles reached for them immediately, but the mare snapped her teeth at him, forcing him to withdraw his hand. A warning. Derek watched him like a hawk, but Stiles’s focus was on the unfriendly mare. He reached into her space to offer her a sugar cube. If she stepped forward while her reins dragged, she could trip and injure herself.

She bared her teeth again at his approaching fingers, but did not bite. However, she also did not take the sugar cube. Vespera inched forward until she could swipe the treat off of Stiles’s hand. Gailavira allowed the younger mare to do so. Vespera briefly touched noses with Gailavira, then whuffed once more at Stiles.

The squire bit his lip. He had one sugar cube left, and if he openly offered it again to Gailavira, Vespera would probably take it again. If he offered it to Vespera to busy her, he had nothing left to tempt Gailavira into his space. So he did something dangerous, something that every horse person had told him not to do ever.

He showed both horses the sugar cube, then wrapped his fist around it, and offered it to them. Vespera reached for it immediately, and her teeth scraped his hand as she tried to get the treat. Stiles gently pulled away from her and toward Gailavira. Eventually, he even pushed Vespera’s muzzle away with the hand that held her reins.

After a moment, the black mare touched her nose to Stiles’s clenched fist. She lipped gently at it. Vespera hovered nearby, but didn’t interfere. Stiles slowly loosened his fingers and showed Gailavira his open palm. She took the sugar from him, bit clicking against her teeth as she crunched it.

He quickly grabbed ahold of her reins with his free hand—he still held on to Vespera—and tried to refrain from jumping with joy. Gailavira eyed him warily, but did not make any aggressive movements. Stiles looked to Derek for approval.

But his master had turned to Vespera and was inspecting Stiles’s work on the tack. He checked her hooves, which Stiles had forgotten to do, but luckily the stablehand who had taken care of her last was not as lax as Gailavira’s groom had been.

Finally, Derek returned his attention to Stiles. He simply nodded, as if Stiles’s work was satisfactory. Unfortunately, he did not retake Gailavira’s reins when he turned to walk away, so Stiles was forced to lead the two mares on his own. He didn’t mind the extra work, but he worried that Gailavira would resist. She seemed content to follow her master, though.

Stiles had once been told by the stablemaster that he had a special touch when it came to unfriendly animals. He wondered if that extended to unfriendly humans. A little smirk played on his lips. He schooled that expression immediately when Derek turned back to face him as they exited the stables.

“These are the Hale stables. Visitors use the other stables. Do not confuse them, ever, or you will never touch another horse.” He said seriously.

“Yessir,” was Stiles’s reply. The horses were his responsibility; he would only allow them to be taken by grooms that were trusted. If one of the grooms made a mistake, the punishment would fall on Stiles. He stared with wide eyes at Derek. Stiles had absolutely no doubt that Derek would make good on his threat.

“Don’t move,” Derek instructed him. Stiles nodded. The duke walked briskly away, and Stiles shuffled his feet. Gailavira became increasingly agitated as the minutes passed.

Eventually, Derek returned. He was burdened by a few packs, no doubt containing his clothes and provisions for their journey. Accompanying him was the stablehand from earlier, who carried Stiles’s belongings. The two loaded the horses silently, ignoring Stiles’s repeated offers to do so himself.

“Until next time, Isaac,” Derek said. He touched the groom’s shoulder. Isaac grinned toothily at him. Stiles watched in shock. The duke’s apparent familiarity with a commoner like this young stablehand was almost incomprehensible. Stiles had thought Derek wouldn’t associate with those so beneath him in rank.

Without acknowledging Stiles’s unabashed staring, Derek reached for Gailavira’s reins. Stiles relinquished them and tried to keep the relief from showing on his face. Derek did not ask him to hold his mare steady as he mounted, though most nobles did. Stiles was increasingly puzzled. Derek, of course, hadn’t wanted Stiles as his squire. But why not take advantage of him while he was there? It was his job to serve his master, after all.

Stiles had no time for further ponderings because Derek had already kicked his mare into motion. Stiles scrambled to mount Vespera, who snorted unhappily at his hastiness. Isaac laughed at him, arms folded across his chest as he watched. Stiles scowled at him as he touched Vespera’s sides with his heels. She immediately sprang into fluid action. It was a joy to ride her. She had a gait like falling water, elegant and smooth.

“Your Grace?” Stiles called.

Derek just urged Gailavira faster.

 

 

The next words Derek spoke to Stiles were, “Let’s make camp here.”

Stiles mostly fell off of Vespera instead of dismounting. He’d maintained an almost steady stream of questions—sometimes Derek _looked_ at him, but mostly he ignored Stiles—until the late afternoon, when he began to doze in the saddle. Vespera had felt him slipping a few times and had jerked to a stop, startling him awake.

She was an excellent horse. Stiles told her so countless times.

Derek had stopped in the middle of a forest, veering slightly off the road. It didn’t seem like the safest place, but Stiles was too exhausted to argue. He pulled Vespera toward a tree, tying her reins around the branch and preparing to groom her.

“Not _here_ ,” Derek said, exasperated.

Stiles continued his movements for a few seconds before the words sank in. Then he stopped and turned, fixing bleary eyes on Derek. His mouth opened, but he couldn’t find it in himself to ask another question.

Derek dismounted Gailavira in one smooth movement, then led her further off the road. Stiles untied Vespera and followed. Every step he took was a stumbling movement that barely kept him off the ground. It was rough underfoot, with pockets of low ground, raised roots, and foliage that foiled his attempts at remaining balanced.

He almost walked into Gailavira, not noticing Derek had stopped. Then he chanced a look around. They stood in a small glade. Emerald grass reached for the sky; wildflowers dotted the tiny meadow. A small brook burbled nearby. Stiles almost felt tears pricking his eyes. It was _so_ perfect. So peaceful. There may as well be fairies dancing around.

“Take care of your horse.” Derek said, turning to do the same to Gailavira.

“I can do that,” Stiles mumbled, batting at Derek’s fingers. The black mare blinked, but did not respond aggressively. Derek stopped, eyed the boy for a moment, and reached behind Stiles to dig in Vespera’s packs. After a moment, he found a sleeping bag and spread it on the earth. Then he steered Stiles to it, gently pushing at him until he lay down.

“No, you can’t,” He muttered. Stiles was asleep before he could finish pulling the blanket over himself. With a sigh, Derek drew the fabric up to his chin and turned to untack the horses.

 

Stiles woke a few hours later. Derek had groomed the horses and set up a small fire. He had used dry wood to cut down the smoke, Stiles idly noticed. A pot sat on the embers and this caught his attention in a much more forceful way. _Food_.

Derek sat on the opposite side of the fire, leaning against a tree stump. He was whittling some wood, flicking the chips into the flames. Stiles cleared his throat; Derek continued carving as if he hadn’t heard.

“I’m sorry, Your Grace,” he tried. Derek glanced up at him, nodded, and resumed his work.

“What are you making?” Stiles asked, pushing himself up to get a better view. Derek shrugged. It looked kind of like a toad, squat and four-legged. Stiles coughed behind his hand, then forced himself to his feet, lurching like a drunk. Derek continued to ignore him, so Stiles pursued attention from another source.

“Vespera? Hello, my darling, hello,” Stiles murmured. His mare swished her tail in greeting, occupied with grazing. Stiles could see the glint of Gailavira’s eyes not far away. Derek had staked the horses, allowing them about six feet to roam. The brook was in reach, Stiles noticed.

He also noticed, then, he was desperately thirsty. He sank to his knees on the bank, gulping the chilly water with abandon. He splashed his face, rubbing at the grime from the road. He wished he could have a proper wash. The water was too cold, though, and Derek was always within view.

He stumbled back to the fire, crumpling inside of his sleeping bag. Stiles felt the stirrings of hunger in his stomach, but he was just too tired to act on them.

“Good night,” Derek said.

“Good night,” Stiles replied, not thinking anything of it.

 

Stiles woke again in the middle of the night. His bladder seemed to be the only thing that was working in his entire body. He could feel nothing but that horrible _need._

He extricated himself from the sleeping bag, shivering at the cold. The fire had burned down to glowing embers. The carving Derek had been working on had been finished and was upright on one of the rocks ringing the dead fire—he now saw it as an elegant wolf, eerily lit from below by the glowing coals. Derek himself was a lump in his sleeping bag. The light was too faint to reach his face.

Stiles pulled on his boots—had Derek taken them off? That was strange and also thoughtful—and tiptoed away, heading deeper into the forest. He didn’t stray far, just enough that he had the cover of the trees.

After he’d finished his business, he wandered back to camp. From this angle, Derek looked oddly shaped, like he’d curled into a ball. Stiles inched closer, trying to see exactly what had happened to Derek. He stifled a gasp as he realized that Derek wasn’t even in his sleeping bag. The blankets had been bunched up to give the appearance that he was still there.

Oh gods. Where was Derek? Had he been killed? There was no blood, no signs of a fight. The grass wasn’t even indented to show dragging. Had he wandered off in his sleep? Had he abandoned Stiles? The squire whirled to check on the horses. Both were there, silent and sleeping. Their tack had been hung in the trees around them.

So Derek had left?

Stiles wanted to sit and wait for him to return. Every instinct he had told him _get back in your sleeping bag, build up the fire, and wait._ But he couldn’t. So he padded around the clearing, looking for broken branches and bent grass, anything to track Derek by.

He found a tree whose branches bore a few cracked twigs. “Good enough,” he muttered, and pushed into the trees, being careful not to disturb anything. He checked before he placed every step, thus his progress was slow and arduous. But it was silent. After a few more steps, he found a scuff mark from where Derek had kicked a stone or branch out of his way. There were many markers for him to follow. Derek wasn’t very good at hiding his tracks. Stiles would have to talk to him about that.

He continued this way for what felt like hours until he came upon another clearing. At the other end, Derek kneeled, head downturned. Was he asleep?

“Derek?” Stiles asked, tentatively, stepping forward as he did so. The duke jerked and started to turn. His progress was stopped abruptly, but he met Stiles’s eyes.

“Go!” His voice was low, but it carried. Stiles frowned, unsure. Why would he leave without Derek? Derek looked panicked. “ _Go!”_ He repeated, jerking his face back to where Stiles came. The rest of his body faced forward.

Stiles was still unsure, but he turned to leave, figuring Derek would come back to the camp when he was ready. However, he suddenly found himself face-down on the ground with a mouthful of dirt. His head spun and throbbed, and he tried to get up before he remembered that he’d be forced back down. He _was_ forced down, quite viciously, and then his hands were tied behind him.

His captor levered him up. Stiles’s head lolled back on his bruised neck, which earned a harsh chuckle. “Looks like I’m not the first t’ rough ya up, son.”

Stiles answered that with a groan, and then croaked, “Unfortunately, I doubt you’ll be the last.” He struggled to lift his head so that he could look his captor in the eye. The man’s face was rugged, weathered dark by the wind and sun. He had a few scars—they were straight, Stiles training told him, so probably caused by knives—and calf-brown eyes.

The man laughed brashly. “Ye’ve got quite the sense of humor. I didn’t think his Putridness over ‘ere was the type t’ ‘preciate that, though.”

Stiles struggled to look at Derek, whose expression was hard. “He isn’t,” Stiles affirmed.

Another laugh, and the man dragged Stiles over to where Derek was. He hadn’t been able to see before, but Derek’s hands were tied together and then tied to a stake in the ground. He had perhaps an inch of slack rope.

The man set Stiles on his knees, opposite of Derek, then looked the squire in the eyes and spoke seriously. “I’m gonna grab some rope. I’ll kill ya if ya move.” His fingers hovered by his dagger.

Stiles nodded.

The man turned away, walking a few feet to the base of a tree. Hidden amongst the above-ground roots was the man’s pack, a length of rope, and some supplies.

Stiles moved smoothly and slowly, trying not to attract attention, as the man kneeled and began to dig around in his pile of supplies. Stiles felt by touch, not letting his eyes stray from the man’s back. Finally, his fingers scraped something sharp—a jagged rock—and he pulled it to him and settled it under his knees. Derek watched him without a word.

Stiles met Derek’s eyes just as the man turned around. He chattered to Stiles while he tied his hands together. Stiles watched as he made the knot. He recognized it as one taught to him during his training as a page. It was sturdy and wouldn’t be easy to unravel.

“Yer lucky ye came while the others were away. They probably woulda killed ya. What a waste that would have been! I can see yer a clever one. Ye got that spark in yer eyes. But you listened t’ me.” He patted Stiles’s cheek as he finished tying a knot around the stake. “Yer the perfect prisoner!”

Derek shifted uncomfortably. Stiles could see that his skin was starting to swell, rubbed raw by the ties. He sympathized. The rope was already chafing against him.

The bandit—Stiles assumed that that was what he was—wandered back to the tree, muttering to himself as he went. Stiles deemed it safe to have a whispered conversation.

“Your Grace?”

The duke met his gaze. He looked calm, considering the circumstances. But Stiles noted a tightness around his lips.

“How many are there?” Stiles whispered.

“Eight. Including him.” Came the terse reply.

“Trollops and trolls,” Stiles cursed. “When did they leave? And why?”

“Maybe an hour ago. I don’t know why. They didn’t discuss it in front of me,” Derek replied. Stiles looked over his shoulder at the bandit by the tree. He thumbed the edge of his dagger lazily. Dawn had come and gone, and enough light filtered through the trees that Stiles could see that the dagger was very finely made.

“We’d better go before the others return,” Stiles muttered, thinking aloud.

“What, and let them accost someone else? No, we have to capture them all. And if they come back to see us—well, me—gone, they’ll relocate.” Derek said.

“You and I can’t fight eight men.” Stiles said.

“’Ey! What’re you two yammering about? No talkin’. I’ll kill ya’s.” Their guard sounded a little insulted that they’d dare disobey him.

“Derek,” Stiles muttered, “We cannot wait.”

“ _Gods_ , you stupid cur of a squire, how many times must I tell you?” Derek said loudly, “You must call me by my proper title. Why can’t you understand this? It seems elementary.”

Stiles’s eyes widened. “What are you doing?” He hissed desperately. “He’ll hear—“

“I THOUGHT I SAID NO TALKIN’,” the bandit yelled, pushing himself to his feet. He twirled the dagger as he walked. Despite his stumbling gait, he held the weapon like someone who had had practice with it.

“Sir, this squire refuses to treat me with respect. I would like permission to strike him.” Derek stared up at their captor, looking affronted. Stiles looked just as affronted, but he directed his gaze at the duke. Why had he reacted like this? What could he possibly gain by hitting him? Over something as simple as using his given name.

And then it clicked. Get the guard near, they can strike back. Stiles reached for the rock underneath him, trying to use his body to hide his actions. He sunk a little lower and said piteously. “I’m sorry, Your Grace. Please, don’t hurt me. Please give me another chance. I can be better.” He held the rock between his knees, scraping the rope against its jagged edge with quick, jerking movements.

“Ha!” The captor kicked Stiles’s ribs lightly. “Yer clever tongue got ye in trouble. Well, who’m I to deny _royalty_?” He said sarcastically. But he didn’t lean down to cut Derek’s ties. The duke stared at him expectantly. He acted like an entitled nobleman very well, Stiles thought to himself.

“What? Ye think I’m that stupid? I ain’t untyin’ no one!” The bandit grinned, showing a few missing teeth. “Ye want to strike him, strike him.” Derek shot Stiles an apologetic glance, then lunged for him. The rope restricted how far he could go, but it was enough for his body to slam into Stiles’s. The bandit laughed, but the impact from Derek’s tackle had sawed through the final strands of the rope.

Stiles immediately shot to his feet, his elbow smashing into the man’s nose. The bandit reeled back, screaming, as blood gushed down his face. Stiles aimed a kick at his ribs, driving the man to his knees. The bandit tried a blind swipe at Stiles’s knees, which the squire easily sidestepped. Then the boy drove a sharp kick under the bandit’s chin, knocking him out.

The squire grinned at Derek, who stared impassively back, and then he rummaged in the man’s pockets. He found a small bag of coins, which he tossed in Derek’s direction. He appropriated the fine dagger, buckling it beside his own. All the man had was a few scraps of paper, a map, and a flask full of what smelled like graun—graun was a crude type of alcohol that was versatile in its uses: melting varnish, rotting intestines, and making sailors black-out drunk. All for a low price.

Stiles turned back to Derek and silently cut through his ties in one swipe. Derek didn’t say anything either; he turned and examined what Stiles had found in the ruffian’s pockets, pocketing what he deemed important. The map was unremarkable; it showed the forest surrounding the palace in detail, but only noted things hunters would find useful—deer trails, creeks, known rabbit warrens, etc.

Stiles dragged the man over to the stake, setting him on his knees. He slumped forward, and Stiles shrugged, deciding to let him be. He found the rope and bound the bandit’s wrists a smidgeon on the tight side—petty revenge against the bandit’s treatment of Stiles’s own wrists. Derek had moved to the tree with the bandit’s other supplies. As Stiles approached, he saw that the cache was deeper than he assumed. There were numerous packs, blankets, and a treasure trove of weapons and armor, of assorted sizes and styles.

Derek thumbed one of the breast plates of hardened leather, a thoughtful frown on his face. Stiles didn’t have it in him to ask why. He slumped against the tree trunk.

“Seven on two is better than eight on two, wouldn’t you say?” Stiles asked aloud, not expecting a response. He couldn’t handle sitting in silence, though.

“Hmm,” Derek grunted. It sounded affirmative. “This armor is from a palace watchman’s uniform. You need to get the horses.”

Stiles jerked up. “I’m not leaving you.”

Derek rolled his eyes. “I’ll be fine. I’ll hide if they come.”

Stiles squinted at him. Derek turned to stare at Stiles and his face suddenly bore a remarkable resemblance to Peter’s. “I don’t think you’re in a position to refuse a direct order from your superior.”

With a sigh, Stiles stood and offered an ironic salute. “As you wish, Your Grace,” He muttered, and then began the journey back to their small camp. He snagged a pack of food and sword from the pile, admiring its gleaming edge as he went.

 

When he arrived at the old camp, he found that the two horses had paced a wide circle in the range allowed them by their stake. Vespera immediately snuffled at his hands and his face, whickering her approval when she had finished. Gailavira was slower to approach, but she inhaled deeply at his fingers, no doubt looking for traces of her master. Satisfied, she allowed Stiles to briefly stroke her muzzle.

He packed up their belongings, moving quickly. After kicking some dirt over the fire, he saddled the two mares and tied a lead onto Gailavira’s bridle. Then he mounted Vespera and urged her back to the glade where Derek and the bandit were. It was already past midday. He and Derek needed to make up for lost time.

He slowed and dismounted before he reached the clearing, suddenly having a horrible feeling in the pit of his stomach. The two mares were also anxious. He tied the horses to a branch, murmuring softly to keep them quiet as he stepped away. He reached the edge of the trees and almost cried out.

Derek was bruised and bloody, looking positively beaten. He had been tied to a thick tree branch, arms up above his head. His feet barely brushed the ground. There were a few men milling about the tree where the trove of weapons and supplies were.

“What the hell is this? Some of the food’s gone. And my sword!” He heard as one of the men pawed around.

“Shut up, Jerr. Your sword’s fine. Yer probably too blind to see it,” said another. Jerr did not take to this kindly. He rose from his crouch and swiftly kicked the other man in the groin.

“ _Your_ sword isn’t,” He spat, as the man writhed.

Stiles retreated, wondering how to continue. There were two men on the ground whose tunics were stained with blood. Another one was tending their wounds gingerly. Stiles wasn’t sure if the blood was theirs or Derek’s, but they seemed to be unconscious for the near future at least.

Derek moaned, pulling at his ties. Stiles flicked a glance at him. His tunic had been ripped in a few places. The most concerning wound Stiles could see was one near his hip. It didn’t seem to be bleeding much, but if Derek aggravated it (or the men) that would change.

Five to one. He couldn’t do that. Maybe he could set a fire? And when the men went to investigate, he’d untie Derek and get him onto Gail. But what if not all the men went? He couldn’t fight them off _and_ cut Derek loose. And if the fire got out of control, it’d become as much a problem for him as it would for the men.

He’d noticed a bow in the stash of weapons by the tree. If only he’d grabbed it! He could’ve shot the men from a distance. He considered his weapons. Two knives. A sword. A whuff from behind him reminded him that he had two warhorses.

Warhorses were trained to down enemy soldiers in battle while protecting their masters. It was hard to command Gailavira—or Vespera, for that matter—because Derek hadn’t yet taught him what commands they responded to. Stiles did, however, know that Gailavira would protect Derek and that Vespera would lash out at anyone attacking Stiles without him having to give her an explicit command.

Two knives, two warhorses, a sword, and Stiles. He could work with that. He breathed deeply, formulating a plan. It was simple, more crude than his usual, but it would do. There was no time for tactical brilliance. A few more deep breaths. Something like a wry smile crossed his lips as he sent a brief prayer up to the gods—a sign of true desperation.

He was ready.

Stiles searched the ground quickly and came up with a hefty stone. He threw it to his right, trying to draw the men’s attention away from him and Derek. They suddenly ceased their chatter and straightened, silently looking first to where the stone had fallen and then meeting each other’s eyes. One who seemed to be the leader motioned for two men to go and investigate. They scurried in the direction the rustling had come from, moving quietly.

Stiles immediately threw one of his knives at the remaining three men. It sank into a man’s back and he sank to the ground. The next knife missed the leader by a hair, but embedded itself in the bicep of the other man. Stiles slapped Gailavira’s rump and mounted Vespera, kicking her into action. The two mares whinnied shrilly.

He hefted the stolen sword as Vespera charged the leader. Stiles swung at the man’s neck, but he ducked and quickly parried. The counter jarred Stiles’s arm so much that he almost dropped the sword. Vespera pushed into the bandit’s space, making the sword too much of a hassle to use. Stiles kicked his foot free of the stirrup and aimed a smashing hit at the man’s face. The bandit tried to dodge, but wasn’t quick enough to escape. He dropped like a stone.

Vespera kicked at the man whose arm Stiles had hit with the knife and the man crumpled. He had been trying to sneak up from behind. The bandit with a knife in his back had been trampled. Stiles forced himself not to glance at the ground, knowing he would throw up.

The two bandits who had been sent to investigate Stiles’s diversion returned, having heard the commotion. They attacked from either side, trying to overwhelm him. Stiles ducked in his saddle and struck, fighting them off as best as he could. One nicked his side, and the other landed a brutal punch on Stiles’s opposite thigh. A dagger streaked across his forearm. He could _feel_ himself losing. Vespera came to his rescue, using tooth and hoof to fight one man off so that Stiles could focus on the other. To his surprise, Gailavira suddenly appeared and struck the man down from behind, rearing and smashing her forelegs into his shoulders.

Stiles slumped in relief, dismounting Vespera slowly. He petted and praised her, telling her she was the most beautiful creature in all the land, with breath of wine and honey and the face of an angel. He looked aside as she whuffed in his face, his gaze falling on the trampled, bloody men.

He knelt and heaved until his stomach hurt. Then he went about the horrifying business of assessing who was left alive. The dead he left until he could stomach dealing with the bodies. The living he dragged over to where Derek hung. The leader was still breathing, but shallowly, along with the man whose bicep Stiles had struck. One of the two who had been sent to investigate the disturbance still lived, as well as the first bandit. The men that Derek had downed were terribly wounded; one had a stomach wound that ensured slow death. The other—dead—had been stabbed a hair away from his heart. He’d probably bled out before Stiles had even arrived. The rest had been trampled by the two mares.

Stiles bound the four living and not-mortally-wounded men, making sure to remove their weapons and search them for hidden ones. He stared at the man with the wounded stomach. He wouldn’t survive more than a few days, even with the care of the best physicians in the land. Stiles knelt before him, whispered an apology, and cut his throat. His first cold-blooded kill.

Before he could dwell on it further, he turned his attention to Derek, cutting through the ties holding him upright. Derek’s nose was bleeding, but looked unbroken. Blood leaked from his mouth as well, a dark color that worried Stiles. It looked like blood from deep inside Derek’s body, not from something he’d get from an injury inside of his mouth. Stiles decided none of that was life-threatening (except possibly the blood from Derek’s mouth, which could be caused by internal bleeding, which Stiles would be unable to treat anyway, so why worry about it, right?) and moved to strip the bloody tunic away, slicing the fine cloth to pieces. He fought to detach himself from everything, to work with a clinical eye. He struggled to remember what he could from his scant training in medicine. Pages all learned basic healing for emergencies; only those who went on to become medics had further training.

Stiles stared down at Derek’s bare torso, assessing the lethality of each wound. The deepest cut was on his hip, with another nearly as bad on his arm. It was near an artery but not dangerously so. He had a tapestry of bruises blooming across his torso; it looked like a drunk had splashed Derek’s body with dark paint. Stiles gently probed along his ribs—nothing apparently broken, thanks be to every god listening. Various other lacerations across his body, intermixed with the bruises. The brutes must have kicked him with metal-toed boots after downing him with the knife cuts. He winced in sympathy, thanking the gods again for a lack of broken ribs.

His clinical façade started to slip. Derek had the body to match his marble-statue face. His skin was soft, ridged, every muscle beautifully defined. Stiles felt something stirring in him, but he really didn’t have time to identify and compartmentalize it. He shook his head, forcing himself to readopt the physician mindset.

The wounds were still bleeding, but not as much as he would expect. Puzzling. He shrugged, though—he wasn’t about to complain—and dug around in their packs. He had a meager first aid kit in his pack, swiped from the Hale stables. He found a needle and string. Good. Then he gulped and then looked for something to clean the wounds with, knowing this was the most painful part.

Antiseptic from the palace was too much to ask for. He could try cauterize them instead of the stitches, he supposed….And then he remembered the flask of graun. He scrambled to his feet, dove for it, and brought it back to Derek’s side. The lid was almost too much for his shaking hands, but he eventually got it unscrewed.

He sucked in a breath out of sympathy before he moved, but then he dumped it over the cut on Derek’s lower side. The duke jerked and cried out, flailing his arms weakly.

“I know, I know, I’m so sorry,” Stiles murmured, putting the flask down so he could catch the man’s hands—he worried Derek would harm himself further. Stiles squeezed Derek’s fingers and Derek opened his eyes. They were shockingly blue.

“Stiles?” He asked, whimpering a little.

“You’re hurt. Try to stay still. I have to stitch it up.” Stiles neglected to say that he had to stitch more than one wound. Baby steps.

Derek frowned for a moment before he nodded, closing his eyes and breathing deeply. His chin came up, exposing his long neck. Bruises marked its pale expanse, but otherwise it was long and smooth, with a light smattering of stubble. Again, that warm feeling stirred in Stiles’s core. What in all of the realms under the sun _was that?_

Derek opened his eyes again, fixing Stiles with an impatient stare. The squire shook himself and threaded the needle with difficulty. Then he took a breath and tried to still his shaking hands. He was back in page training, joking with Scott about how he thought it was more important to know how to undo stitches than it was to know how to make them. Finstock came up behind them and told Stiles to get to work because his damsel was dying, knocking his and Scott’s heads together as he did so. He also told Stiles that he’d be lucky to get near enough to a lady to undo her stitches. He smiled slightly.

The tremors ceased, and he began the line of stitches. They were neat, surgical, and it took only 13 to close the wound. Derek flexed underneath him every so often, but held still otherwise.

He doused the closed wound with another splash of alcohol, and Derek hissed in surprise.

“Sorry, sorry. One more…” He apologized.

Derek shook his head. “I don’t need it.”

Stiles sat on his forearm, trapping him. “Don’t move and don’t argue.”

Derek, to Stiles’s _deep_ surprise, listened.

The wound was across the underside of his arm, barely deep enough to warrant stitches. But it was long, which was what worried Stiles. He paused, trying to figure out how to do this properly. Stitching it as it was, Derek would break the wound open any time he lifted his arm. If Stiles pulled it above his head, the wound would become a lot wider than it really was.

He moved so that Derek’s arm was at a right angle to his torso, figuring that that would be the best compromise. He splashed it with alcohol, brushing Derek’s shoulder with soothing fingers as the man tensed. Then he got to work, stitching tight and even. He finished quickly, tying them off with a proud grin.

Derek met his eyes with disapproval in his gaze. And then he passed out. Stiles laughed at his folly.

 

Derek didn’t wake up until late afternoon. The golden light angled against his face in an enchanting way. Stiles tried to stare at his hands instead of looking at his mentor. He’d never found himself attracted to a man before, but gods save him if Derek wasn’t one of the most beautiful human beings he’d ever seen.

His eyes, too, drew Stiles like a moth to a flame. What color were they? Somewhere between blue and gray and green and hazel. Like a lake in the fall. Or a misty meadow. The silence became uncomfortable. Stiles sighed aloud, and Derek sighed with him.

“How are you faring?” Stiles asked him quietly. He was exhausted, but he hadn’t trusted the bandits enough to fall asleep. They had woken up one at a time. Their silence disconcerted Stiles, but he’d take that over rowdiness. Derek needed his rest.

He’d thought to dig a mass grave for the four dead thieves, but he had no shovel, no way at all to break the earth, short of using his dagger. He’d settled for dragging the men a fair distance away from the camp. That way they wouldn’t have to sit in the stink of dead bodies. But it meant that his own body was sore.

“I’ve had better days,” Derek answered as he pushed himself onto his elbows.

“Hey! Don’t move. I’ll get it. You are under strict bed rest orders from your healer.” Stiles flailed at Derek until he stopped trying to sit up, though he did scowl and mutter something about doctoring skills. Stiles dug up a water skin and brought Derek some dried fruit and meat. “I finished last night’s stew,” he said apologetically.

Derek waved away his apology as he gulped the water. He also waved away the food, but Stiles glared at him until he took a strip of meat and part of an apple.  He fixed Stiles with a hard stare, and Stiles beamed at him.

“You’re unbearable,” Derek growled, tearing into the meat.

“My father would agree with you,” Stiles replied cheerily. He took a pull of water for himself, and then glanced at Derek’s body again. For physician reasons. Definitely. The bruises had darkened and spread, but the stitches held. Stiles liked his abs. Oh, how Stiles liked his abs.

Derek coughed and then gasped in pain, grabbing at his ribs. Stiles murmured sympathetically, his hands fluttering. He wished he could help. Gailavira wandered over and stuck her nose in Derek’s hair. The duke, flat on his back, thumbed her cheek.

“You’re a good girl, Gail, you are. Such a good girl,” he murmured.

“She saved my life,” Stiles told him. “She and Vespera.”

Derek met his eye. “You saved mine.”

Stiles blushed, dropping his head. “It was the least I could do.”

He could see that Derek didn’t agree with that, but he didn’t argue it further. “I wish I had listened to you. That mess was my fault,” Derek said, instead.

Stiles perked up. “You could repay me by not punishing me for calling you Derek.”

Derek eyed him for a moment, calculating. Then his eyes went back to Gail. He shifted his fingers from her cheek to her muzzle. “Fine. But you address every other ranked noble with respect. It reflects badly on me if my squire doesn’t have proper manners.”

“Deal!” Stiles exclaimed, his smile wide despite the yellowing bruise on his jaw.

“Cute,” said one of the bandits sarcastically—it was their first captor. His nose was crooked and his face was macabre with its dark streaks of blood. The other three shushed him.

Derek’s eyes flashed—literally flashed red, Stiles could swear—and he turned to fix the offending man with the kind of glare that stripped paint and curdled milk. “If you speak to me or my squire again, I will inflict such a curse on you that you will wish you were dead,” He spat.

All four men shrank away, terror in their eyes. “That was harsh,” Stiles stage-whispered to Derek. He idly wondered what Derek would do to make good on his threat. Had his eyes really been red?

“Bollocks to your harsh,” Derek replied. He sat up fully, despite Stiles’s protests. Gailavira snorted at the intrusion to her space, sauntering back to Vespera. Derek looked down at himself, as if noticing for the first time that his torso was bare. “Where’s my tunic?”

Stiles blanched. “I had to cut it away…I’m sorry. I can repay you.”

“Nonsense,” Derek said. He started to get to his feet. Stiles was there immediately.

“You can’t get up yet. Your body needs time to heal. Let me get it for you.”

Derek huffed in exasperation, but his ass remained planted on the ground. Stiles nodded to himself and went to find Derek’s pack. He brought it back, fishing out a moss green over-shirt that was so complimentary to Derek’s eyes that it was almost preferable to having him shirtless.

“Do you need anything else? More water?” Stiles hovered near, almost over him.

Derek shook his head, inhaling sharply as the stitches on his arm pulled when he tried to put his tunic on. Stiles moved to help, but Derek turned that withering glare on him. So Stiles sat back on his haunches, resisting the urge to assist.

After much effort, Derek clothed himself. Then he collapsed with a huff and went back to sleep.

This was quite unfortunate, as Stiles wanted to sleep, too. He sat for a few moments more, then sighed and stood, resigning himself to gathering wood for tonight’s fire.

 

Derek woke after night had settled over the forest. Stiles had built the fire up enough that it was crackling merrily. He’d also given the four bandits water, as much as he hated doing anything for them. They’d stared at him with hard eyes. One even spat the water back into his face. So he hadn’t gotten any food. His choice. And Stiles had made sure he’d known that.

Stiles was still awake, but only barely. He was writing in his journal, but the writing kept turning into unreadable scrawl, or the lines drifted up or down, like they were trying to escape the page. He glanced up when he felt Derek’s gaze on him.

“Hungry?” He asked, proffering the same salted meat as before. Derek shook his head, but reached for the water skin beside him. He finished it, then sighed deeply.

“What are we going to do about them?” Stiles asked, flicking his eyes at the four men. Two seemed to be dozing, heads back and mouths lolling open. One was almost there; his head kept nodding and jerking back as he forced himself to stay awake. The leader, the one who’d spit his water at Stiles, was wide awake and focused intensely on the conversation.

“Kill them. They’d do the same to us.” Derek said.

Stiles’s blood ran cold. “They didn’t. They tied us up. Can’t we take them to some town? To be tried?”

“We will,” Derek sighed. “I wish we could be rid of them.”

“I do, too,” Stiles said. “But they should be punished by the law, not by another man.”

Derek scrutinized him. Feeling self-conscious, Stiles wrapped his arms around his knees, resting his chin on his forearms.

“You should sleep,” Derek said. “You’re hurt, too.” His eyes fastened on the stretch of Stiles’s neck that he could see. The bruises were still vibrant against his pale skin. A thought came to him and he sat up straighter. “Did they cut you?”

Stiles wanted to say no. He really did. But lying wasn’t an option. So he shrugged. “It’s not bad.”

Derek hefted himself to his knees, then crawled over. “Take off your shirt,” He ordered.

Stiles snorted, considering the merits of commenting on that command. He decided a box to the ears wouldn’t be worth it, so he yanked the tunic off, about as disgruntled as a child about to endure bath time. He was far from uncomfortable with his body, but it paled (ha) in comparison to Derek’s sculpted…everything.

Derek pushed at his shoulders until he was flat on his back. Derek hovered over him, fingers gently probing at Stiles’s many bruises. There was a shallow cut along his left side and one along his forearm. Stiles couldn’t restrain his sharp intake of breath as Derek’s touch passed a little too close. Derek inspected the first wound by the light of the fire, then declared it was fine without any stitches. Stiles sighed his relief. It was impossible for him to sit through that kind of an ordeal.

Derek turned away for a moment, forcing himself to his feet. Stiles could see him gritting his teeth in pain, but not a sound escaped him. He stumbled over to where Stiles had left the flask of alcohol and brought it back with a grin.

“Revenge is sweet,” He informed the squire. “Your wounds need cleaning, even if they don’t need stitches.”

Stiles wriggled as Derek splashed the cut, but he _definitely_ did _not_ whimper. And if he did, he didn’t whimper like a kicked dog. Absolutely not.

“Oh, stop it,” Derek said distractedly. He searched for cloth, something to bind Stiles’s wound with.

“There’s still some of your tunic left. Over by my pack,” Stiles told him, gesturing at it. Thankfully for Derek, it was within reach. He leaned across Stiles, his chest skidding across Stiles’s in a delicious way. Derek breathed a little harder; his arm pulling at the stitches again, probably. Stiles bit his lip; he told himself he couldn’t help the way his heart mimicked a galloping horse.

Derek then sat back, urging Stiles to sit up. Stiles lifted his arms to assist in Derek’s endeavor and Derek grunted his thanks as he finished tying the bandage. He gave Stiles’s arm the same treatment. Stiles lifted Derek’s shirt to check on his own wound. The stitches were still in place. He sighed in relief.

Their gazes locked and Stiles wanted to ask about Derek’s flashing eyes and why Peter had forced him to take Stiles on as his squire and why Derek had been so awful and then so kind. But then Derek shoved him and said, “Shut your mouth. I can see your mind working. Don’t you dare say anything. Go to sleep.”

Stiles simply couldn’t argue with that, could he?


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kiiiind of an info dump towards the end. But the next few chapters will be more interesting? :)

He dreamed that he was running, running so hard that every muscle in his body hurt. But his feet barely moved. Scott was in trouble, they were going to hurt Scott, Stiles had to save him, ScottneededhimhehadtohelpScotthehadtogettoScott—

“Stiles,” Derek’s face was unbearably close. His hands rested on Stiles’s biceps. “Stiles,” he repeated. “It was a dream. Just a dream.”

Stiles had jerked up, pushing against Derek’s restraining arms. He withered back down onto the ground when they didn’t give. He was sweating, his heart skipping in his chest. Derek released him and sat back, staring at his heaving chest. With a long sigh, Stiles ran his hands through his hair.

“I feel like I haven’t slept at all after dreams like that,” He complained.

Derek nodded knowingly, and Stiles suddenly wondered if Derek had nightmares, or if he had dreams at all. What did Derek think about before he went to sleep every night? What was his first thought in the morning? Then he reminded himself it wasn’t his problem.

He glanced around, then up. Dawn wove milky fingers into the night sky, tinting the eastern horizon with the whitest shade of lavender. Derek sighed and heaved himself to his feet. He was already moving more easily, stretching lightly as he walked to the bandits.

He kicked them awake, which Stiles objected to. But he didn’t say anything, figuring Derek didn’t need him undermining his authority at that particular moment. Derek’s earlier comment about revenge stuck in the back of his mind.

“We’re going to town. Your hands will remain tied. I will not tie your feet. I will be riding a horse. If you try to run, I will trample you to death. If you try to attack, I will flay you _alive_ and leave you for the vultures. Understand?” Derek seemed to have a propensity for calmly administered threats in the form of clipped sentences.

The bandits nodded gravely. Stiles wondered if they didn’t reply verbally because of Derek’s earlier threat.

Derek knelt to untie them from the stake. Stiles stood nearby with a length of rope, which each rogue was attached to. Knight and squire finished cleaning up the camp, and then saddled their horses with great difficulty. Both were stiff with still-healing wounds. Vespera was subdued; she didn’t try to trick Stiles into a too-loose girth again.

Mounting the horses became a problem. Stiles could give Derek a knee to step on, but then he couldn’t get up on his own. And vice versa. Finally, Vespera stood herself by a tree, ignoring Stiles when he tried to pull her away. Stiles sighed, seeing the decision was made for him. He helped Derek onto his horse and then grabbed hold of one of the tree’s low-hanging branches, swinging onto the mare heavily. Stiles squeaked in pain as the wound on his side twinged; Vespera snorted at his stupidity. He crooned in her ear, though, told her she was the best thing that ever happened to him, she was cleverer than the sum of the king’s advisors.

The bandits tried to keep straight faces. One failed, so Derek kicked him as he rode past.

They journeyed back to Derek and Stiles’s first camp, where they paused to catch their breath and refill the water skins. Derek pocketed the little wolf figurine while Stiles kicked himself for forgetting about it. When they reached the main road, they stopped again.

“Which way is the closest town?” Stiles asked Derek, who had pulled out a map.

“Rivendell is another six miles through the forest. Falconsfall is four miles back toward the palace.” Derek answered. Trekking through the forest wasn’t as safe, but if they could save time by not backtracking...

“Rivendell?” Stiles asked, Vespera already shifting impatiently beneath him.

“Rivendell,” Derek affirmed.

 

The journey took them most of the day. They stopped often to rest. Stiles returned to his old habit of nonstop chatter. This time, however, Derek occasionally answered his questions.

“How old are you? You don’t look that old, but you’re always so unhappy.”

A glare.

“When did you become part of the King’s Guard?”

“Four years ago.”

“When did you become leader?”

“Two.”

“Months? Years? Decades? Days?”

Derek rolled his eyes.

“Years, then. Why didn’t you take a squire before now?”

Derek didn’t acknowledge his question.

“I wager you wouldn’t have taken any squire this year if Peter hadn’t forced it upon you.”

No comment. Stiles could swear he saw Derek’s mouth tighten, though.

“When did you get Gailavira?” Stiles tried after a moment.

Derek stroked Gail’s neck as he rode, a fond smile on the edges of his lips. Stiles wondered what it would be like to have Derek be fond of _him_. “She was given to me seven years ago. I raised her almost from birth.”

“Who gave her to you?”

Derek looked down, now, at his clenched fists.

Stiles kicked himself inwardly. “How about Vespera?”

“I don’t know where she came from.”

“She’s not yours?” Stiles frowned. He didn’t like the idea that Derek had let him choose someone else’s horse.

“She’s Peter’s horse. He has a hundred others.” Derek’s mouth was definitely tight.

“Wait, what _?_ Peter as in _King_ Peter?” Stiles gasped.

The smallest of smirks. “Do you know any others?”

“Yes,” Stiles answered stoutly. Peter wasn’t an uncommon name. Derek was silent, seemingly content to end the conversation there. Stiles wasn’t. “So, what’s your favorite color?”

 

And so on until they reached Rivendell. The town was more of a village, only a few small buildings on either side of the road. There was a shabby inn, though, which boded well. Children scampered back into their homes at the sight of the two men and their grim company. Their mothers came out and stood in their doorways, eyes on the bandits. Stiles suddenly had a horrible thought. What if the bandits were from here? What if these were the men of the town, stealing from travelers to provide for their families?

He tried to catch Derek’s attention, but the duke fixedly ignored him as they approached the town hall. A young man met them outside. His head was a shock of thick ginger hair. Stiles disliked him automatically. Some fundamental instinct, he guessed.

“Your business, sir?” The man asked.

“I am Duke Derek Hale. These men accosted my squire and me as we travelled. I have brought them here so that they can be justly tried and justly punished.” Gailavira shifted under Derek, muscles rolling, as the young man stepped forward to get a closer look at the four ruffians.

“A pleasure to meet you, Your Grace. I am Mayor Rosenthal. Please, come inside and I will send for the constable.” The young man walked back inside, gesturing for Stiles and Derek to follow.

Stiles met Derek’s gaze as they dismounted and tied their horses to the water troughs provided. Derek glanced at the water and, noting that it wasn’t brackish, said, “ _Fliya_ , Gail,” The mare drank thirstily. Vespera stared at Stiles. He racked his brain.

“Drink?” Vespera didn’t move, eyes still on Stiles.

“Uh…it’s safe? Go? Yes?” The mare swished her tail.

“ _Fliya_?” He tried. Vespera’s muzzle dropped instantly to the water, and she drank deeply.

“What language is that?” Stiles asked Derek.

“It isn’t one,” Derek replied smugly, stepping into the town hall. Someday, Derek had to teach him to work Vespera. She would be so much more useful if Stiles knew what he was doing.

 “Gods,” Stiles muttered, annoyed, starting to follow him in.

Derek stopped, turning and snapping his gaze to the bandits, then back at Stiles. Understanding his wish, Stiles nodded morosely and tramped back through the doorway. Once outside, he leaned back against the frame and crossed his arms.

“I guess I’m guarding you, eh?” They stared around the town or at their feet. Only the leader returned his gaze.

“So, why haven’t any of you talked? Is it because of Derek? I know he’s rather intimidating, but once you get past the gruff exterior, he’s not all that bad. I was expecting you to try to strike a deal. Or bribe me. Something like that.” Stiles began to pace back and forth. The leader’s eyes followed him.

“Unless you don’t need a deal. Is this your home? These are your people, aren’t they? You won’t be getting a fair trial. The prosecution would be by your neighbors.” None of them acknowledged his thinking out loud. The leader’s gaze continued to track him, though.

Stiles paused in his pacing, shook his head. “No, that isn’t right. These people are afraid of you. Why? Do they know you? You can’t be just average highwaymen...No, you’re working for someone. Who’s your master?” He glared at the men. The leader was impassive, the other men still seemed to be lost in their own worlds.

Stiles sauntered up close, fisting the fabric of the leader’s vest and pulling him in. He used the same tactic Derek had used on him, not a few days ago. Vespera nickered lowly. Stiles’s arm strained, but he ignored its protest. “Who are you working for? Is it a rival noble? Are you foreign?”

The man spat in Stiles’s face.

Stiles dropped him in disgust, wiping at the spittle. Something very like a snarl came from both Vespera and Gailavira.

“That’s the second time you’ve done that. Let it be the last.”

The leader laughed, making a sound for the first time. Stiles watched him closely. The two horses shifted uneasily, ears flattening against their necks, but Stiles was focused on the leader.

The bandit gave a raspy chuckle and spoke, his voice rough from disuse. “You stupid boy. I will tell you who we are. We are Argentum, trained in the art of assassination—“ The other men looked up in shock, then panic, scrabbling at their ties. “We will kill everything that wretched beast holds dear, and then we will end his equally wretched existence. For the good of the kingdom, for the Almighty.”

The other men began to cough, and their movements became even more frenzied. Stiles thought he could see smoke wisping out from their mouths.

“Beast? What beast?” Stiles demanded. The men were screaming, clawing at their necks. The air stunk of burning flesh and hot blood. Vespera and Gailavira whinnied in terror, bucking and pulling at their restraints. The water splashed as the mares jostled the troughs. Some of the men reached toward it desperately.

“You—know—“ Rasped the leader, his eyes wild.

And then he laughed. He howled with laughter even as thick, black smoke gushed from his mouth. Clutching his throat, he gasped one final time and fell dead. The others, attached by their hands, were pulled down by his momentum. They, too, hacked and wheezed until they finally fell silent.

Derek burst outside not a moment after the last man had gasped his final breath. His gaze fell on the two panicking horses, then on Stiles, who stared in horror at the carnage around him. The ginger mayor was right on his heels.

“ _What happened?_ I ordered you to guard them!” His voice was harsh. Stiles fell to his knees under its weight. Up close, the stench was worse; he keeled over, unable to stop himself from vomiting his meager lunch.

“Pox rot it all,” Derek groaned, then pulled Stiles back from the edge of the town hall’s porch. The squire’s head lolled on his neck. Everything spun. Everything hurt. He lurched, but Derek’s hands on his shoulders kept him upright. “Stiles?”

“I didn’t do it,” Stiles rasped. He stared at the dead men. Their throats were just…gone. Black, scorched flesh gaped like an open mouth. Their eyes were still open, wide with pain. “I didn’t…It wasn’t me…”

Derek waited until Stiles met his eyes. “I believe you,” he said reassuringly. “But, Stiles, you must focus and talk to me. What happened?”

Stiles gazed blankly into his mentor’s crystal gray eyes, his misty meadow stare. “I don’t know,” The words were too weak; he felt like it wasn’t enough. But he couldn’t say anything more.

“All right. That’s all right,” Derek replied. He pulled Stiles away from the corpses, sat him down on the earth beside the town hall. The burning-flesh smell was gone, replaced with soothing pine and wet moss. It reminded him of home, of the forest around the Stilinski manor. “Stay here,” He told Stiles, who nodded numbly. Disobeying wasn’t really an option right then.

Derek walked away, running his hands through his hair. Stiles wanted to tell him not stretch his stitches. The knight knelt beside the bandits, conducting a superficial examination. Stiles wanted to apologize for throwing up. The leader had fallen face-down, so Derek rolled him over; dead eyes stared at the sun, which hovered high above the forest canopy. Stiles wanted to tell him what the man had said before he died.

What had he said before he died?

“Argentum,” Stiles murmured aloud. Where had he heard that before? His mind was too fuzzy. His thoughts felt like fog on a windy day, dissipating before he could shape them into anything useful.

Derek’s shoulders stiffened. His head turned slowly, and his searching eyes alighted on Stiles; the squire thumbed the stone pendant Scott had given him, unaware of Derek’s shocked gaze.

“Argentum?” Derek whispered.

 

“They aren’tblue.” Stiles argued.

Derek rolled his eyes.

“They _aren’t!_ ” Stiles caught the arm of a passing servant. “Miss, please, if I could have you for a moment?”

The girl blushed. Derek rolled his eyes again. Stiles coughed nervously.

“That’s not what I meant. Though, if you don’t object, I wouldn’t object and, really, even though it’s premarital, what’s so bad about mutually consensual—Wait, ha, no. I need you to look at this man’s eyes.” The girl peered nervously at Stiles, then shot a glance at Derek. Her eyes returned to Stiles almost instantaneously. Stiles sighed. “No, _look_ at them. Closely.”

Derek glared at Stiles, and then turned to look at the maid without adulterating his gaze. She met his eyes and then shrank away timidly.

“He looks like murder, I understand. What color would you say his eyes are?” The girl looked at Stiles, still anxious. “This isn’t a trick. I want to know your opinion.”

She bit her lip. “Um…they look…blue, my lord?”

Derek smirked.

Stiles moaned in frustration. “Gods all damn. Back to your duties, you useless wench.” The girl scurried away even as Stiles called an apology after her. He whirled on Derek, who sipped wine calmly. “Don’t take this as a victory.”

“They’re blue, Stiles,” He said, his not-blue eyes on the couple seated across from them. The woman flirted mercilessly with a servant while her date looked on.

The squire ran his hands through his hair, groaning. “They’re more than that. They’re blue and green and gray and gods know what else. They’re not even a color. Unless you’re angry.”

Derek turned then, an eyebrow raised.

Stiles shrugged. “They turn colors when you’re angry. Sometimes I could swear they’re red, sometimes bright blue. Like when the bandits were being insubordinate, they went red.” He tapped a finger against his lips. “But when I was stitching up your side, blue. So maybe not anger. Pain? But that wouldn’t explain the bandits. Strong emotions, I suppose. Maybe the color depends on the emotion. How _is_ your side, by the way?”

Stiles reached for the edge of Derek’s tunic, and Derek slapped at his hands without looking at them.

“I’m sure your mind is playing tricks on you,” Derek said, looking around again. No one had seen, so Stiles’s inappropriate behavior went unnoticed. Thank the ever-watching gods.

The knight finished his wine and raised his glass. Immediately, a page came to take it away.

“Would you like more, my lord?” The boy asked, eyes averted respectfully.

“I would like water,” Derek replied.

The boy nodded, scampering away. Stiles watched him go. “That was me, a month or two ago.”

“I’m well aware,” Derek said, fixing him with an ironic stare. There was significance to that stare.

Stiles paled. There had been an—incident—his first year of serving. He found it nearly impossible to believe Derek could remember that far back, unless he had been directly involved…

Stiles had never been known for his prowess in coordination. He blamed Scott for the entire thing, though. Scott should have known better than to foist the wine tray on him, _especially_ when Scott had given Stiles a glass of wine for himself. Stiles had lost his balance when proffering the tray to one of the guests. Needless to say, there was more than one wine stain and he spent the rest of the night washing dishes. Far away from other people.

“You weren’t—“ He faltered as Derek nodded, then blurted, “That wasn’t me.” Derek raised both brows this time. “Well, it was me. But it wasn’t my _fault_. I was drunk. And that wasn’t my fault either.”

“You should stop,” Derek advised with a smirk. Stiles bowed to his wisdom, taking a long draught of water _—“Squires are not allowed to drink spirits without the permission of their mentors.” “Do I have your permission?” “No.”—_ and wishing desperately for something stronger.

They’d spent the evening chatting—well, Stiles talked and Derek mostly moved his eyebrows, replying only sometimes—and he couldn’t puzzle out why Derek had brought them here. It was a party thrown by one of the middle-ranking new-money lordlings—Gentlian? Gentian?—and Stiles had gathered that Derek received invitations often but rarely showed up.

Their appearance had caused quite the clamor, especially amongst the ladies of the estate. Stiles chose to believe that that was due at least in part to him, despite what Derek told him. Things had settled quickly, though, and they found themselves at the dinner table.

Stiles had no problem with the dinner table. The dinner table was his friend. Derek, however, wasn’t so fond of it. He seemed restless, constantly shifting in his seat. He pulled at his tunic’s collar, like he had the day of the squire ceremony, and his brows hung low and heavy.

Stiles stood, asking for his excusal. He caught Derek’s eye, hoping that the knight would follow. He walked away to a chorus of directions. The bathroom was the last door down the hall after two rights, the coatroom was just down the hall to his left—impossible to miss!—and one enterprising young lady offered him the directions to her bedroom. Her mother slapped her shoulder, and her fiancé glared after Stiles.

The squire laughed to himself as he flounced away. Had that actually happened? Probably not. Just his imagination at play.

“It wasn’t your imagination,” came a gruff voice from the dark.

Stiles’s squeak was probably just as gruff. He thought so, at least.

Derek leaned against a column to his left, and Stiles didn’t even bother to ask how the grouchy old knight had gotten there before he had. Derek’s eyes were on Stiles, glittering in the low light. How was that possible? How did those cursed eyes find enough light to reflect back at him? They were like cats’ eyes—or wolves’ eyes. Derek looked positively predatory.

“What?” Derek asked, pushing off of the wall to stand before him. His voice was low; servants passed every so often through here.

“Why are we wasting our time here? A dinner party is hardly your style,” Stiles said, recognizing and reflecting the quietness of Derek’s voice.

The duke sighed, looking down. “The bandits.”

Stiles perked up. After that day, Derek hadn’t brought them back up. He refused to answer Stiles’s questions about them as well. Stiles didn’t even know what had happened to the bodies. He’d fallen asleep by the town hall and woken up the next morning in the inn. They ate breakfast and set out for the Hale estate; Derek had greeted his every question with silence until Stiles gave up on asking about the bandits.

Derek took a breath before continuing. “One of them was wearing a dagger with Lord Gentian’s family crest and his brother’s initials.”

“So? They probably stole it from him. They were swimming in stolen goods.”

“Gentian’s—“ Derek paused as a servant trundled by, loaded down with the umpteenth course of their dinner ”—brother disappeared with that dagger over a year ago.”

He waited another few moments, glaring down each end of the hall, before he continued. “It’s a long shot, but it’s all we have. I have the bandit’s ring. I’ve been waiting to speak to Gentian about it.”

He dug in his pouch for a moment, coming up with a wide silver band. It bore an unfamiliar family crest, stamped into the bright metal. Stiles, looking at Derek for permission, picked it up to examine it more closely. There were words engraved on the inner side of the ring, so small they were almost unreadable. “Nous chassons ceux qui nous chassent.” It wrapped around and around: an endless circle of the phrase.

Stiles didn’t recognize the language. “What is this?” He asked, eyes snapping up to meet Derek’s.

“I don’t know,” Came the answer. Derek plucked the ring from his fingers and quickly stowed it in his pouch as another servant wandered past. The man’s walk was so slow that it was almost aimless. Derek growled under his breath seemingly unconsciously. Stiles was still and silent until he passed, though.

“When—“ Stiles began when he judged it safe, but he was interrupted.

“Derek?” A female voice echoed from down the hall.

Derek’s eyes widened. “No,” he whispered, still facing Stiles, but his gaze was unfocused. The squire stared up at him.

“Derek, is that you?” The voice asked again. She was closer now.

Derek turned around slowly, almost backing into Stiles. The boy stepped around him, trying to see who had Derek acting so strangely.

The woman was tall and elegant. Her eyes _almost_ matched Derek’s for striking beauty, though their color was inarguably blue. Honey blonde hair was piled high on her head, a few strands left to frame her angular face. Her gown was so long that it trailed behind her, and it seemed to be wrought of pure silver. It hugged her curves in all the right ways. She quirked a set of full, red lips at the squire, who returned her gaze with unabashed awe.

“It _is_ you,” She smiled at Derek, looking for all the world like a ravenous mountain lioness staring down a young deer. “So good to see you.”

“Katherine,” Derek whispered. “I have to—“ He cut himself off, turning around and almost walking into Stiles. He sidestepped jerkily and all but ran down the corridor.

Stiles watched him go, then faced the woman. She gave him a demure smile, stopping her slow saunter before him. Stiles had a few inches on her in height, but he felt tiny. He felt like a mouse staring into the eyes of cat, a knight before a dragon, a peasant before a queen.

“I should—“ He found himself unable to finish his sentence, either.

Katherine smiled endearingly, reaching out to cup his cheek. “Yes, I believe you should.”

Stiles felt like he was ripping himself away from her. He stumbled and almost fell in his haste to escape. Laughter followed him.

 

Stiles found Derek at the table, staring angrily into his soup. He sat down with a huff, offering smiles and a quip to anyone who commented on his return. As the dinner conversation resumed, Stiles tried to elbow Derek into an explanation, but one of the noblewomen accosted him before Derek could respond.

“My dear, you’ve the loveliest eyes I’ve ever seen!” She exclaimed. She was seated across the table; he saw no need for her to raise her voice, but raise it she did. Stiles stared at the woman, evaluating. Intelligent green eyes met his gaze and she offered a secretive smile.

“What? Me? Have you seen His Grace’s eyes? They escape description!” Stiles gestured at Derek, who hadn’t acknowledged Stiles’s or anyone else’s effort to involve him in conversation. He grumpily ripped a bread roll in half, chewing a piece of it like he wanted to grind it to dust. An awkward silence followed as they waited for Derek to respond.

The man seated beside the redheaded noblewoman muttered something in her ear; she brushed him aside, much to his disapproval.

“Stiles, darling, you must come visit me for tea some time.” She said with another coy smile. The man—her date—said something else, more insistent. Again, she blew him off.

“You honor me with this invitation,” Stiles replied, smiling back at her.

The noblewoman’s date glared at him. He had cheekbones cut from stone, and a mouth made for cruelty. His blue eyes were cold.

“I do not think it is yours to accept,” The man sneered. His gaze moved to Derek. “You have duties to the duke, I’m certain.”

“Duke Derek doesn’t concern himself with how I spend my free time,” Stiles retorted. He returned his attention to the beautiful woman. “My apologies for that interruption.”

The woman threw back her head, her tinkling laugh ringing through the air. Stiles couldn’t help but stare at her smooth, pale neck. Some part of him, deep in the back of his mind, compared it to Derek’s and found it wanting, but he pushed that thought away.

“I do not think it is your apology to make,” Her voice was almost a purr. She glanced at her date sidelong. “Jackson?”

“My apologies to you,” The man mumbled petulantly. She cooed her approval. Jackson stood up, catching hold of the woman’s arm as he did so. “Lydia, I think it’s time we were on our way. My father asked us to leave an hour ago.”

Lydia threw a smile over her shoulder at Stiles as the two sauntered away. The squire sat back in his chair, brows up and mouth hanging open.

“Calm down,” Derek muttered. “She was trying to make him jealous.”

Stiles glared at him. He couldn’t bask in a woman’s attention for a moment, could he? Then again, Derek was talking. And that was what Stiles really wanted.

“Um…Derek?” Stiles asked tentatively. “Who was that? In the corridor?”

Derek’s shoulders hunched like he’d been struck. He took another roll and ignored Stiles, who sighed in defeat. They’d have to break this habit eventually. Derek couldn’t just pick and choose what he wanted to respond to.

“Her name is Katherine Argent.” Derek murmured lowly, eyes still on his soup bowl. “She is…an acquaintance.”

Stiles wanted to press him for more—Argent like Argentum?—but the courses changed again. Now they were bombarded with meat. So many different kinds of meat. Pheasant dripping in creamy sauce. Roast boar complete with an apple in its mouth. Swan, delicate and sumptuous, surrounded by greens. Veal sliced almost paper thin. Duck and rabbit and deer! Even an entire platter of seafood—Derek snorted at this, claiming it was too weak to be actual meat, but too strong to be a vegetable. Stiles was not so picky.

He ate until he could not move. He couldn’t even open his mouth, for fear of his meal making a reappearance. Derek chastised him for his gluttony, but Stiles couldn’t bring himself to care—that is, until a few courses later when the desserts appeared. He _had_ to try the chocolate. He’d heard all manner of things about chocolate: it was a narcotic, a hallucinogenic, even an aphrodisiac.

He took a bit for himself and placed more on Derek’s plate. Derek glared at him for having the audacity to assume that he wanted any, but ate it anyway. Stiles wriggled his eyebrows in a tantalizing way and leered, but Derek seemed no more inclined to ravish Stiles than he had been before he’d eaten the chocolate.

Stiles sighed, popping his own chocolate into his mouth. It was like nothing he’d ever experienced. His eyes opened wide and his tongue danced around the sweet.

Derek watched Stiles, something like a smile curving the edges of his well-cut mouth.

“I need a pen, some paper,” Stiles said desperately.

“Why?” Derek replied. Underneath the usual flatness of his tone was something that Stiles suspected was similar to amusement.

“I need to write poetry. I need to express how I feel. Oh, the _joy_! This is ambrosia! I have found _nirvana_!” He proclaimed loudly. It was a breach of manners to speak so loudly, but the guests around them chuckled at him good-humoredly. “Quick! While the flavor is still in my mouth!” He flagged a servant down, a nervous fellow who wrung his hands as he listened to Stiles’s request.

The man hurried away, but Derek called after him, telling him not to heed to his drunk squire’s instructions. The man paused, confused, until Derek waved him away.

Stiles pouted at Derek, who met his gaze with a smirk. “Why did you do that?”

“This kingdom would fall to ruin if I let you write poetry.” Derek replied.

Stiles’s pout automatically disappeared as his expression became one of indignation and his back straightened. He pointed a finger at Derek, ready to begin waving it to punctuate his response.

“You can protect your honor later,” Derek interrupted. Stiles slumped back into his seat as Derek waved to another servant. This one was almost opposite of the first, dark-skinned and built like an ox. He was steady; every movement was calculated. He had a flat gaze that belied his intelligence.

“Boyd, how are you?” Derek asked the servant.

“Very good, Your Grace. And yourself?” Boyd an accent that Stiles couldn’t identify. The squire chewed a nail. This man made him nervous, with all his quiet intellect and power. He looked like he could snap Stiles in half, and would, if the inclination struck him.

“I’m quite well, thank you. Would you be able to do me a favor?” Derek was so polite, so gentlemanly. Stiles felt a little jealousy rise within him. He was Derek’s squire. Didn’t he warrant these manners?

“I will do my best,” The man replied with a little bow. “I wish I could do more, considering my debt to you.”

“There is no debt, Boyd, you know that very well.” The servant looked skeptical still but Derek bulled on. “I need you to request an audience with Lord Gentian for me.” Boyd nodded and bowed again, but much more deeply. Then he stepped away, making his way to the head of the table.

Lord Gentian was a proud man, with a hooked nose and fashionably cut white hair. He had a fondness for expensive wine and gaudy jewelry. He also enjoyed seducing countless women of all standings, despite the fact that he’d had a wife for nigh on twenty years. Stiles suspected there must be some magic involved—no woman in her right mind would jump into Gentian’s arms.

However, Gentian was, in spite of all his glaring faults, extremely clever. He knew the advantages of having friends in the royal family. Thus, he was desperate to gain Derek’s allegiance.

So, when the manservant stooped to murmur into Gentian’s ear, Stiles had the singular joy of watching the old man’s face shift through a range of emotions at blinding speed—surprise, eagerness, suspicion, wariness, fear, and, finally, a mask of polite interest.

He met Derek’s gaze coolly, and inclined his head toward the banquet hall’s exit. Derek nodded and rose. Stiles began to stand as well, but Derek planted a firm hand on his shoulder and pushed him back down into his seat.

Stiles rolled with the momentum, but gazed at Derek with pleading eyes. The duke shook his head at his squire, excused himself, and walked with measured steps to meet their host by the arched entrance.

Stiles waited until they had turned the corner to stand. He excused himself as well, to the other guests’ eternal amusement _—“Are leashes standard-issue for the Wolf Pack’s squires now, or is that just you, Stiles?”_ —and followed his mentor. Derek and Gentian had a head start on him, but Stiles could tell that no words were being exchanged. They turned corner after corner, and Stiles stuck to them like a burr, ducking into empty rooms or alcoves every so often to escape detection.

Finally, Stiles caught sight of the two men disappearing behind a set of dark maple-wood doors. He immediately scampered to the doors, kneeling and fitting his ear against the keyhole. The sound was muffled but the voices were mostly clear. He recognized Derek’s smooth, deep voice and he was lost in the sound of it for a moment, too distracted to make out words. Gentian’s oily tones jarred him back to focus.

“The ring isn’t his. However, I am confident that this is William’s dagger.”

“You’re certain you don’t recognize the ring?”

“I didn’t say that, Your Grace, though that is certainly a conclusion I would expect you to arrive at,” Gentian sounded like he was trying to both soothe and flatter Derek. Stiles shuddered at the man’s blatant fawning.

“What exactly _did_ you say, Gentian? I’m sure you’re aware that I have little patience for word play.” Derek’s exasperation was evident. He really wasn’t very good at dealing with people. Stiles hid a grin behind his hand before he realized he didn’t have to.

“The ring isn’t William’s, Your Grace. He stole it.” Stiles shifted closer, frowning. Had he heard that correctly?

“From whom did he steal it?” Derek asked. He _had_ heard it correctly, it seemed.

“Me. Our uncle Madoc awarded it to me in his will. William was much closer to Madoc than I. He gained most of his estate and belongings. This ring, amongst a few other baubles, and a generous amount of gold was left to me by Madoc. William claimed he had more right to the ring than I did.” A man appeared at the distant end of the hall. Stiles met his gaze and the man frowned, starting toward him.

He cringed, but kept his ear against the keyhole, determined to learn what he could before he had to leave.

“Do you know what the engraving says?” Derek’s voice was further away; Stiles could barely make out his words.

“Ah…I believe it is the motto of some cult Madoc was a part of. Something about hunting.” Gentian was much closer than before. His voice was perfectly clear. The man from the end of the hall walked faster, on the cusp of breaking into a jog. He was nearly upon Stiles.

Suddenly, the door jerked open, inward, and Stiles found himself on the ground. Gentian exclaimed in both victory and surprise, as if he hadn’t expected to find that his suspicion of an eavesdropper was correct. The man from the end of the hall pinned Stiles from behind, one knee on the squire’s back as he gripped both of his arms.

Facedown in the sumptuous carpet, Stiles considered his options. A) Allow himself to be captured and face punishment from Derek and/or Gentian. B) Allow himself to be captured, then run away at first chance; Gentian would demand his apprehension, Derek would probably weasel him out of it but privately punish him. Or C) Try to wrestle his way out of the man’s hold, hiding his face as he did so, to avoid any incrimination at all.

C seemed to be the best choice to him, provided that Derek didn’t take it upon himself to try and capture him. He decided to trust that Derek would assume that it was Stiles and his insatiable curiosity rather than a dangerous eavesdropper. This plan would only work if Derek didn’t pursue him. Stiles had no doubt in the older man’s ability to outrun him.

Stiles waited until the man removed his knee from Stiles’s back in order to lever him to his feet. In that spare moment, Stiles opened his legs and slid his thigh against the man’s foot, forcing him to widen his stance and fall a little off balance. Then he tensed his stomach and curved his spine, kicking up and from behind. The man, caught by surprise, fell forward; Stiles cried out as his arms were pulled toward his head. Thankfully, the man’s grip broke before he dislocated anything. It may have had something to do with the way his face was suddenly introduced to Gentian’s knee. This happened in the space of a breath.

Both men howled and Stiles used to commotion to make his escape. He pounded down the hallway, turning left without hesitation at the first fork he saw. To his dismay, he heard footsteps behind him. He threw a glance over his shoulder, and, sure enough, Derek was bearing down on him. The boy didn’t concern himself with trying to remember how to get to the banquet hall. He focused only on outrunning Derek—and on keeping his dinner down.

The knight proved to be more capable of moving his considerable bulk than Stiles would have estimated. He gained on Stiles in every open stretch. Eventually, Stiles turned the wrong corner and found himself at a dead end. Panicking, he tried to open the first door he passed. Locked.

Derek appeared at the hallway’s bend, eyes flashing murderously—and bright red, Stiles noted.

The squire almost gave himself up to his mentor’s fury right there. But his sense of self-preservation galvanized him to try another door. This one sprang open at his touch, and he jumped in, slamming it behind him so quickly that he nearly caught his own tunic in it. Almost immediately, he felt Derek’s weight crash into it from the other side.

The knight roared in frustration, and Stiles gulped.

The knob didn’t have a lock, so Stiles planted himself against the door, begging every god he knew to let him live through the night. It seemed unlikely, given the way the duke threw himself against the door again and again.

Still leaning hard against the door, Stiles looked around the room, determining his assets. A dresser, too far away to be of use. A heavy four-poster bed, also too far away to benefit him. A vanity, equipped with a variety of bottles. Maybe Stiles could blind Derek and then make his escape? Unlikely, he decided. Derek might be able to dodge the spray, or it could cause permanent damage. Stiles’s eyes then fell on the opposite wall. A balcony with beautiful glass-paned doors led outside. What floor was he on? The third, he thought. Maybe the second. He was unwilling to risk a jump in case he was wrong.

The door shuddered behind Stiles. He thought he heard the wood splintering. Even if _he_ held firm, the door would soon meet its end.

“Derek?” He called tentatively. The duke’s response was an even more aggravated bellow. He seemed inhuman in his rage and desperation.

“I—ALMOST—HAD—HIM!” Derek growled against the door, each word punctuated by another thump. These were gentler than before, though. They sounded like individual fists rather than an entire body.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles whined. “I didn’t know he was going to spring the damned door open!”

Derek stopped pushing against the door. Stiles heard him sigh.

“Are you going to kill me?” He asked.

Another sigh.

“I’m not opening this door until you promise not to kill me.”

“I promise I won’t kill you.”

Stiles turned the door knob, heart in his throat, and opened the door slightly. Derek stood almost against the door, resting his forearms on either side of the frame. Stiles widened the gap, offering his mentor an apologetic grin.

Sudden, blinding pain. He reeled back, clutching at his jaw. He hadn’t even seen the fist coming, hadn’t seen a twitch to give away Derek’s intentions. Derek now leaned against one side of the doorframe, his shoulders almost broad enough to fill the whole doorway.

“I suppose I deserved that,” Stiles muttered, then whimpered as his jaw protested the movement. “I think one of my teeth is loose.”

Derek stared impassively, arms folded.

Stiles felt around in his mouth. His hand came away bloody, but his teeth were intact. “I was wrong.”

Derek blinked slowly, his face managing to be unimpressed and impassive and unspeakably angry all at once. Stiles had the feeling Derek had aimed the punch to hit in the most sensitive, nerve-filled point of his jaw. And, somehow, had also made sure that it wouldn’t inflict any permanent damage.

Stiles hated Derek and his stupid precision punches.

“Why is always violence with you?” Stiles griped. “It comes more easily to you than words, doesn’t it? I know your secret, don’t try to deny it.” He found himself to be in a strangely good mood. All things considered, a punch to the jaw was almost a best-case scenario.

Derek began to inspect his knuckles. He shrugged in response to Stiles’s accusations.

With a groan, Stiles flopped onto the bed, folding an arm over his eyes. He scooted over as he felt the other side of the bed dip under Derek’s weight.

“How much did you hear?” Derek asked.

The squire removed his arm, squinting at Derek. Stiles’s scrutiny was met with the most cordial mask he’d ever seen.

“Ooh, that’s good. Do you practice that face or does it come naturally?”

Derek jabbed him in the side, and Stiles decided that the amusement he gained from trying Derek’s patience wasn’t worth the physical agony.

“Ye gods. Ahhh…The ring is Gentian’s. Gentian’s brother William stole it. The inscription is the motto of a secret cult their uncle was a part of. And William was part of it, too, if his zeal regarding ownership of the ring is anything to go by.”

Derek grunted his agreement. He had turned away from Stiles, resting his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands. He looked…drained.

Stiles admitted to himself he was probably a little delirious from the punch and the adrenaline of the chase. That knowledge made it easier for him to imagine touching the rounded bow of Derek’s back, tracing shapes and words and pictures into the navy velvet of his tunic. He imagined pressing gentle kisses to the curve of Derek’s neck, the corners of his lips, the dark lavender skin of his eyelids, and the space where his eyelashes brushed his cheekbones. Stiles imagined running his fingers through Derek’s thick hair, tracing the shape of his straight, dark brows, memorizing the way his stubble rasped against Stiles’s touch.

Derek sighed and stood. Stiles’s fantasies stretched and warped and fell away like gossamer strands of spider silk. He resurfaced in the real world, feeling like a man on the edge of drowning. Stiles wrenched himself to his feet and stumbled to the balcony doors. After fumbling with the lock, he finally forced the doors open and stepped outside.

He inhaled the cool air for long moments, trying to take some of the night’s serenity into himself. The sky was like the black sail of a huge ship, dotted with diamonds. High in the sky, like a waving flag, the moon winked at the earth below. Imagining the god of night, Dandier, steering his huge ship across the horizon calmed Stiles, soothed his wildness.

When he turned around, Derek had gone.

 

They returned to the party separately, but not by much. Stiles stripped out of his cocoa-brown tunic, trading it for a nondescript gray one he snagged from the laundry room. He wanted to minimize the risk of being recognized by Gentian or the servant who had apprehended him. Then he found a privy and splashed cool water on his sore face, staring miserably at his reflection. Bruises seemed to be a permanent fixture for him.

He waited a few minutes longer, puttering around in the halls and chitchatting with passing servants, before he made his reappearance. Derek wasn’t at his seat, though—the other guests pointed him to the entry. Sighing, Stiles followed their directions. His mentor waited by the door, heavy black cloak already around his shoulders. Draped on his arm was the one he’d had made for Stiles. Somewhere between maroon and crimson, it wasn’t good for any sort of camouflage; Stiles wasn’t going to turn Derek down, though. The cloak was finely made, tailored specifically for him, and fitted with a number of inner pockets to hide trinkets in. Everything he had ever wanted in a garment.

“You’re useless if you freeze to death, and the cost isn’t a burden to me,” was all Derek had said in response to Stiles’s numerous and heartfelt thank you’s.

Stiles took the cloak from Derek, wrapping himself in it and yanking the hood up. It was a chilly night, despite the fact that it was barely fall. When Stiles reached for the door, intending to go out and ready the horses, Derek shook his head and said, “I sent a servant.”

A few moments more of awkward silence, and Derek added. “I told Gentian that the eavesdropper escaped.” Stiles nodded.

Gentian appeared soon after, emerging from the hall that led to the banquet room. The elderly man hardly gave Stiles a second glance, forcing an exhalation of relief from his lips. Gentian and Derek clasped forearms in the traditional greeting/farewell of warriors. Before he released Derek, Gentian pulled him in close, muttering something in his ear that was too low for Stiles to catch. Derek nodded, and the two broke their grips on each other.

A servant burst in from the outside door, looking a little harried. “Your horses are ready, milords.” Stiles pitied the man for having to saddle and lead Gailavira, who still occasionally nipped at him to assert her dominance.

Derek’s gaze locked with Gentian’s once more, and then he pulled his hood up and stalked outside. Stiles muttered something very, very quietly about melodrama and followed his mentor. They could hear Gail’s protests from across the courtyard. She snorted and paced and pulled at her lead. The poor groom holding her looked simultaneously terrified and elated as he caught sight of Derek. Gail calmed as she saw her master, her shrill whinnying reduced to huffs.

Vespera, of course, was the picture of complacency. Stiles grinned at the groom who held her. He tentatively smiled back.

The two men mounted their horses together, nodding their thanks to the stable boys for holding the mares steady. Then, together, they dug their heels into the horses’ sides, giving the two energetic mares the freedom to gallop.

They slowed after they’d come some distance from Gentian’s manor. Their pace remained a jaunty trot, which Stiles’s overfull stomach did not appreciate. He could feel Vespera’s desire to continue their headlong run, but Stiles was also burning with curiosity.

Questions burst from him without his consent. “What did Gentian say to you just before we left? Do you think he recognized me? Does he suspect anything? Do you still have the ring?”

Derek, slumping in his saddle, only said, “Gentian’s brother is Argentum, and he still lives.”

Stiles pulled at Vespera’s reins. The mare snorted at the rough treatment of her sensitive mouth, but she stopped. Derek, for once in his life, waited for Stiles. Gail chewed at the bit, anxious to move, but Derek held her steady.

“No explanation? You don’t have anything more to say?” Stiles demanded.

“That’s it,” Derek confirmed.

“Is this a joke?!” Stiles shouted. Derek shushed him, but Stiles couldn’t end his tirade that suddenly. “The Argentum are a legend. Gentian is stringing you along by your gems if you think his brother is part of some fairytale cult.”

Derek pursed his lips at Stiles. “You know nothing of the Argentum.”

Stiles tilted his chin defiantly. “What do you know about them that I don’t?”

 

Derek thumped a book onto the desk, jerking Stiles awake. He choked on the dust rising from its cover, then looked around in bewilderment. Derek smirked, his eyes falling to the old tome Stiles had been trying to read. Stiles followed his gaze, then wiped desperately at the conspicuous puddle of drool.

“That isn’t what you think it is,” Stiles insisted without looking up to see his mentor’s reaction.

“Have you educated yourself on the Argentum?” Derek asked, ignoring Stiles’s excuses and pulling out a chair for himself.

“They’re part of a fairytale. A group of hunters who would smite the unjust. Their preferred weapons were bow and arrow, which were famously silver; or _argent,_ in the language they spoke. Thus the name Argentum. The first of the Argentum was a man named Lucian, who assembled the group to avenge his son’s murder. A king named Lycaon had killed Lucian’s son, so Lucian murdered every one of Lycaon’s fifty sons—an accomplished man, Lycaon—except for one son, who ruled Lycaon’s kingdom for a spell. He tried to eradicate the Argentum, but the Argentum got _him._ None of the books have his name, which is horribly suspicious. Also, this is where the books begin to vary. Some say Lycaon’s line ended with this last son. Others say that the son had a few heirs of his own, legitimate and otherwise. Supposedly, Lycaon, his sons, and his grandsons all carried some horrible curse from the gods. None of the books specify what the curse is, though.”

Stiles paused for a moment, waiting for Derek to applaud him. Nothing. He continued, with the scantest sigh. “This all apparently happened hundreds of years ago, before the Hale dynasty came to power. Arcadia was yet young, and the conflict was supposedly what triggered our civil war. Half of the people sided with Lycaon and his family, saying that Lucian’s son had murdered one of Lycaon’s sons, thus Lycaon was justified to kill him. The other half of the people claimed that Lycaon had killed an innocent man, and that Lucian should take his place as king. The two parties were also supported by a host of gods, with one of the two Great Ones each being the main patron of each side. The Almighty sided with Lucian, while his Queen chose to support Lycaon.”

“What do you think?” Derek asked.

“Such a messy—what?” Stiles was caught off guard by the interruption. He’d assumed from the lack of expression on Derek’s face that he was being tuned out.

“Which man is the villain?” Derek said, his gaze suddenly strangely intent.

Stiles frowned, unconsciously rubbing at his lips. “I think both.”

“Why?” Derek mirrored Stiles’s frown, but his eyes lingered on the squire’s mouth.

Stiles hesitated before answering. “War is unjustified, no matter its cause. This is the same principle. No man has any right to take another man’s life, no matter his reason.” He rarely shared this particular opinion, having learned very quickly that his fellows would ridicule him for it. However, he felt that Derek spent so much time being unorthodox that he might appreciate, or at least tolerate, an unorthodox opinion. Stiles would fight for his kingdom if he were called to do so. He would protect those who needed protection. But he would privately grieve over every man he killed, every life he stole.

Derek nodded. “I wish we didn’t have to kill,”

“We don’t,” Stiles replied immediately. He was ready to argue this point, but Derek shook his head, an unreadable expression on his face. After a moment, he pointed to the book he had woken Stiles up with.

“This is the most treasured book you will ever lay eyes on.” Derek watched Stiles’s eyes fall on the unimpressive, ragged thing. Its cover was plain leather, and it was only a few hundred pages in length. He waited until the squire met his gaze before continuing. “Your spittle will not come near this. You will treat this book with more respect than a priest gives to the Almighty.”

“I don’t believe in the Almighty.” Stiles said. The Almighty, in his personal opinion, had been created because whoever was ruler in the mortal world hadn’t been happy with the idea of all the gods roaming without a ruler of their own. No doubt anarchy in the heavens would foster thoughts of rebellion among the citizens of the mortal world.

“You’re not a priest,” was Derek’s snapped reply. Stiles glared into his lap. He was not cowed, but he knew which battles to fight. Derek continued after a pause. “This is the journal of a man named Nyctimus. He was once a king of Arcadia.”

“Was he Argentum?” Stiles asked, forgetting his belligerence.

“Quite the opposite,” Derek replied. Without further explanation, he slid the book to Stiles. The squire picked it up, gingerly running his fingers across the vellum. It was cracked with age. The pages were yellowy and almost transparent. Stiles scooted the lantern closer, squinting. The script was thin and spidery, and the language was archaic. But it was legible. He focused intensely, tuning out the world around him, as he began to read.

Hours later, he looked up to find that Derek had left. He wasn’t sure why that made his chest ache—it _was_ the reasonable thing to do—but he ignored it and continued to read. Eventually Derek reappeared, carrying a plate piled with food. Stiles’s face lit up, but the man held the plate away until his squire shut the book and moved it aside. Derek set the food down in front of Stiles and snatched the book away. He held it hostage until Stiles had finished his meal.

Stiles was pensive, but he ate ravenously. The plate finally empty, he sat back in his chair with an expectant expression. Derek replaced the book and removed the plate. Stiles didn’t even remember to thank him, so intent was he on reading Nyctimus’s journal.

The next time he looked up was because the lantern had burned through its fuel. With a loud sigh of frustration, he exited Derek’s library and flagged a passing servant down. All the wait-staff knew him; he’d made quite the grand entrance on his first day, falling off of his horse from exhaustion. The man nodded, grinning, and led Stiles to a nook by the leftmost shelf in the back of the library.

“We keep fuel here, along with some candles. His Grace is just the same as you. Reads until he simply cannot anymore.” Stiles barely remembered to thank the man. He returned to reading the book after fiddling with the lantern.

Derek brought him food every so often. Once Stiles took a nap without moving from his chair. He was careful to move the journal far away from him. When he woke, someone had draped a blanket across his shoulders. Without giving it much thought, he relit the lantern and returned to reading.

After what felt like an eternity, he reached the back cover. With a heavy sigh, he closed the book and glanced up to find Derek’s eyes on him. A strange expression was on the duke’s face.

“Have you read this?” Stiles asked him, unsurprised at his impeccable timing.

“Yes,”

“Is it true?”

Derek didn’t respond; he just met Stiles’s gaze steadily. Sometimes the squire wondered if he would find that communicating with an animal would be easier than deciphering Derek.

“Was Nyctimus really Lycaon’s son?” Stiles tried.

“Yes.”

“Are there any records of that besides this one?”

“The Argentum destroyed them,” Derek replied, his gaze dropping. “They would give anything to destroy this as well.”

“Why?”

“They believe that uncertainty from a lack of information is more beneficial to their work than common knowledge of their history would be.”

Stiles considered this, a thoughtful frown forming on his face. “Is Lycaon one of your ancestors?” He asked after a heavy silence.

“Do you truly want me to answer that?” Derek asked, gazing steadily at Stiles. His eyes flashed blue for a bare moment. Stiles’s heartbeat skipped faster.

Did he want Derek to answer that? He didn’t know. Gods, he _really_ didn’t know.

Stiles shot to his feet, pacing a wide arc around the desk he’d been seated at. There was tension in his neck and shoulders, an unhappy grimace on his lips. Derek’s eyes followed his movements.

Nyctimus had reigned as Arcadia’s king for thirteen unlucky years. These times were hard on the kingdom. Natural disasters seemed to come one after another. The people starved, rioting against the king’s power because that was all they knew. Nyctimus spent months plagued by night terrors. He dreamed of stalking through the forest, his hands—clawed hands—painted red with the blood of innocents. Until one day: the day he found that they were not dreams. He walked the nights as a beast, murderously angry for all that had befallen his family.

The Argentum preyed on him constantly. They left macabre trinkets in his bed, placed spies in his advisory council, paid servants to gossip about a coming assassination where Nyctimus could hear. When they took his wife, Nyctimus disappeared for three days and three nights. He referenced the time in his journal, but did not describe it. Stiles came to understand that he had killed many people before finding his wife. Finding her body, at least. After that, Nyctimus’s sanity began to slip, and the journal became harder and harder to read. From the last twenty or so pages, Stiles could only gather that many years passed and that Nyctimus’s curse still plagued him.

So. Did he want to know if Derek suffered from the same curse?

Yes. He wanted to find a way to cure it, reverse it. No. He didn’t want the burden of that knowledge. If it was true…how many people had Derek killed? How many innocent men and women and children had he slaughtered, punishing them for the punishment laid upon him? What a vicious cycle. What a bloody, pointless feud.

Stiles finally dropped back into his chair. He met Derek’s steady gaze. This man would tell him the truth. He was certain of it. Derek ignored his questions and made him suffer for fun. But Derek also showed unexpected kindness, answered Stiles honestly (when he chose to answer), and respected his intellect. He treated Stiles as an equal, except for his occasional bouts of surliness or aggressiveness.

Those were uncharacteristic. Stiles hadn’t known that to begin with, but Derek wasn’t a violent man. Stiles couldn’t puzzle through the way Derek had nearly strangled him the day they’d met, or the way he’d chased Stiles down at Gentian’s manor. He’d looked ready for murder.

And then he brought Stiles his dinner. He _gave_ him Vespera _—“So how much is my debt for the use of this beautiful temptress and her tack?” “None,” “What!” “You heard me. The horse is yours.”—_ and brought dinner to him. He let Stiles roam the manor freely, had granted him permission to leave and travel wherever he willed, so long as Derek was notified beforehand. He bantered with him at dinners and allowed him freedoms most knights would never allow their squires.

Stiles sighed, chewing on his nail. Was the anger part of the curse? He didn’t know. Was Derek even cursed? He didn’t know. Did he want to? Yes. Gods, yes.

“I want to know. I want you to answer,” He finally said, looking up at Derek.

So the knight stood, looming over his squire. As Stiles watched, Derek’s face shifted. His brow jutted forward, his hair thickened. Nails lengthened and sharpened. His eyes sparkled sapphire in the low light. He showed Stiles his teeth, which had elongated to wickedly pointed fangs.

The squire cocked his head. Then he grabbed Derek’s hand, pulling it closer to his face. He examined the claws, lightly testing them against the surface of the desk. Then he stood and leaned across it, his fingers gently brushing Derek’s thickened hair. He traced the shape of the bridge of Derek’s nose, even resting his fingertips against Derek’s sharpened teeth. The knight bore his abuse with a gravely stoic expression. Finally, Stiles tugged one pointed ear and grinned, sitting back down. In a flash, Derek had become human again, and he took the seat across from Stiles.

The two locked gazes, measuring each other up, until Derek broke the silence. “That was not what I was expecting,”

“Finstock always said I was very hands-on. Unfortunately, none of the ladies at court seemed to appreciate that,” Stiles joked.

Derek sighed, eyes rolling in a familiar way. Stiles ignored him. “Anyway, you were born like this? How do you control it so precisely? Nyctimus couldn’t.”

“You answered your own question. I was born with the curse. I have had many years of practice.” Derek replied, tracing the scratch on the desk from where Stiles had tested his claws (oops). “I was born to be a monster.”

“That’s unfair,” Stiles protested. “You’re being punished for something you couldn’t have prevented.”

“That’s how the world works,” Derek said. “But I have also done many things I am not proud of.”

Stiles met his gaze pensively. “Have you killed anyone? As a—a wolf, I mean.”

Derek blinked slowly. “Of course I have, Stiles. This curse grants me the strength of ten men, eyes that can pierce the blackest night, ears that can detect a man’s lies from his heartbeat, a nose that can track a deer as surely as any hound’s could, a body that heals at more than double the normal speed…But its price is my innocence. My hands are foul with blood.” He fell silent, gauging Stiles’s reaction. “Are you afraid of me yet?”

Stiles smiled wryly. “Not yet. Perhaps I should be.”

Derek sighed and repeated. “Perhaps you should be.”

They watched each other, each lost in his own thoughts.

And then a startling thought came to Stiles, and he was on his feet before he knew it, pacing once again. “So if Lycaon’s children still live, then the Argentum do as well?” He paused, his gaze falling on Derek, who nodded. Stiles continued pacing. “And they’re hunting you?” Derek shrugged. Stiles groaned. “How many of them are there? Who are they? Peasants? Nobles?”

And then something else clicked inside Stiles’s head. He stared at Derek, mouth gaping. “Katherine _Argent_.” Derek’s face was stony with withheld pain. “Like Argentum. She—Derek—what? How do you know her? What _happened_?”

A muscle in Derek’s cheek jumped, and he met Stiles’s eyes with Herculean effort. “We were betrothed.”

“And then you found out she was Argentum?” Stiles asked, sympathy bleeding into his voice and his posture.

“No. I had always known that. I believed she loved me, though. Loved me more than she loved the Argentum, at least. It ended when she showed me where her loyalty truly was.” Derek held his face in his hands, shoulders and back tense. “I was such a fool,” He sighed, voice cracking.

Stiles, faced with grief from a man he had always likened to stone, was unsure of what to do. He knew what he _wanted_ to do. He wanted to climb into Derek’s lap, to bruise Derek’s lips with the force of his _need_ for Derek to be happy. He wanted to touch every inch of Derek’s skin, with fingers and with mouth, until Derek forgot what it was to feel anything other than desire. He wanted to curl up inside the curve of Derek’s body, to hold him and to be held, simply to share the same space.

Stiles knew it was impossible. He knew that there were some dreams in the world that just could never be realized.

So he swallowed his own sadness at that thought and came to stand behind Derek. He rested a comforting hand on the knight’s shoulder, rubbing gently at the thick muscle. Derek looked up at him, shock momentarily overcoming his features. It was replaced quickly by gratitude, and he gripped Stiles’s hand with his own. Stiles’s skin tingled at the contact. He tried to keep his heart under control, knowing now that Derek could hear it. He also realized that he had probably given himself away a long time ago.

“Do not blame yourself for her deceit,” Stiles told him.

Derek’s eyes tightened, and he looked away. “She killed my sister. If it hadn’t been for me, Laura would still be alive.”

Stiles was glad that Derek’s gaze was downturned. He had a moment to control the shock and dismay that dominated his expression. When he had schooled his face, he replied. “You were in love, Derek. Love makes us blind.”

A wry, pained smile on his face, Derek said. “I thought it was ‘love is blind.’”

Stiles shrugged. “This makes more sense.”

And that Derek could not argue with.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I'm late with this update! Life is cray. But hey, interesting things are happening here! B)

Months passed. Derek spent almost every waking moment with Stiles. He was knowledgeable about many subjects. He lectured Stiles on philosophy and mathematics, taught him history (which was much different if Lycaon’s story was taken as true) and spent time training him in etiquette—apparently, they didn’t do a well enough job of all that in the palace.

He also taught Stiles the art of physical combat. Stiles’s hand-to-hand fighting was his weakest point. Under Derek’s instruction, it quickly became where he was most proficient. After Stiles had mastered the basics, Derek taught him how to fight with a knife. He taught him city-boy tricks—hair pulling, biting—as well as the more technical combat that the men of the King’s Guard were versed in—where a man was weakest, where to strike to incapacitate and where to strike to kill, etc. Then he moved on to sword fighting.

Stiles had fought with swords before, of course. In the palace, they had performed endless drills of the same set of moves. His muscles had memorized the movements, so that fencing became almost reflexive. His skills didn’t satisfy Derek, though. Derek expanded his move set, made him practice with a hundred different kinds of sword until Stiles could find the one he most preferred.

Broadswords were too cumbersome, and he didn’t have the strength to wield them properly. Scimitars, like the ones the desert tribes used, had a fighting style too specific for him to reconcile with what he had already learned, and Derek didn’t want him to start anew. Rapiers and sabers were too thin for his taste; when he fought with them, his swings were uncontrolled and erratic. Derek had thrown his hands in the air when Stiles had turned down those as well.

“You need to choose a sword!” Derek told him, practically throwing open the door to his impressive armory.

“Why? Can’t I just use knives?” Stiles griped as he followed Derek inside.

“Every knight has a sword. Whether or not he _uses_ it is up to him.” Derek replied, turning to survey the wall dedicated to swords. His eye eventually fell on an ornately sheathed blade.

“Try this,” With a small smile, he thrust it at Stiles, who drew the silvery blade from its sheath. Stiles gasped in wonder. It felt perfect, light enough to wield one-handed, but not built so lightly that he couldn’t use two-handed swings if he chose. The blade was long and thin, curved very slightly.

“It’s called a tachi,” Derek told him, smiling slightly as his squire admired its elegance. “They are from Japan. It’s an island far away, where warriors begin training when they’re merely boys—sometimes as young as five. And the women are taught to fight, as well.”

Stiles ran through a practice drill, beaming as he held Tiger Watching, and moved smoothly into Tiger Claws. It was a complex move, requiring both an adept swordsman and a well-balanced blade. The sword felt like an extension of his arm. He flourished it as he ended the Tiger drill.

“This is incredible,” He breathed.

“What will you name her?” Derek asked. Stiles didn’t question the blade’s gender. It was most definitely feminine.

“You said it was a Japanese blade? How about…Takara? Because she is definitely a treasure.” Stiles grinned.

Derek started. “Do you speak Japanese?”

“I know some words,” Stiles demurred.

“What other languages do you know?” Derek asked, studying the wall of weapons. He chose an elegant longsword that Stiles had thought was _too_ long.

“Greek, Latin, and Spanish. I’ve been studying Arcadia’s old tongue—the one that the Argentum used. It’s actually very similar to Spanish. I think they call it French, though it’s hard to tell. They don’t fully pronounce half of their words. For all I know, it could be called ‘Fre,’” Stiles quipped, watching the muscles shift in Derek’s broad back as the duke unsheathed the longsword.

Without any warning, Derek swung around in a fast overhand swipe. Stiles leaped back, holding his new blade in a relaxed guard position. They circled each other. Stiles feinted a few times, but didn’t strike. He’d never fought Derek like this. They always used dulled swords and swathed themselves in leather practice armor. For months he’d walked away from their bouts with a body more blue than it was white. He only started to give bruises back to Derek not long ago. Of course, they never stuck for very long.

“Couldn’t we do this in the practice courts?” Stiles complained as he stepped around a pile of sheaths of varying sizes.

“Would an enemy soldier fight you in the practice courts? This is a test of strategy as much as it is skill. _Think_. Use your environment to your advantage.” Derek swung at Stiles as he spoke and the squire deftly blocked. The impact jarred his entire body.

As Stiles parried, he threw a pair of gauntlets at Derek. While the knight dodged, Stiles rushed him, his body automatically moving into an aggressive Butterfly sequence. Derek defended himself easily, using a modified Half Moon to engage Stiles’s sword while he kicked at the backs of his squire’s knees.

“Hey! That was a foul!” Stiles protested as he nearly fell. He regained his balance and danced back warily, keeping his feet moving. Derek smiled grimly, following the squire. His eyes were on Stiles’s torso and face, watching where the muscles tensed to try to determine his next attack.

Stiles, however, was more focused on maneuvering Derek into the perfect position. He slid a little to the right, barely even a step, and Derek mirrored his movement. Perfect. Stiles slammed his fist into the wall, jarring the hanging weapons. A few sheathed swords clattered down around him. Derek raised a brow.

“And Peter told me that you had promise,” He taunted.

Stiles didn’t respond. He kicked a sword toward Derek. It skidded past him harmlessly, and Derek actually _laughed_. Stiles didn’t have the time to savor that wonder, though. Just behind Derek was a full suit of armor, held upright on a stand. The sword skittered and ricocheted off of the metal boots of the stand. The entire thing wobbled, off balance, before it toppled on Derek, whose laughter quickly became a roar of surprise and pain. He went down under a pile of crude steel, and Stiles could see the bright flash of his sapphire blue eyes even as he fell.

“Do I win?” He asked aloud, sheathing Takara. Derek growled in response, and Stiles laughed, leaning down to dig him out. He kneeled beside the pile of shifting metal and unhappy werewolf, removing this and that piece of armor, replacing what Derek had shucked off—hurting more than he was helping. Derek snarled at him, vowing to give him hours of extra philosophy work as punishment.

Stiles shifted to his hands and knees, trusting Derek not to fling any armor straight into his face. Derek did displace the set’s left greave, letting it rest beside him. Stiles, not noticing it as he scooted forward, placed all his weight on the greased metal. It skidded out from underneath him and he fell forward heavily, half on Derek’s chest, body twisting uncomfortably around a piece of the breastplate.

He immediately tried to pull back, blushing fiercely, but Derek caught his biceps. Stiles froze, heart beating like a jackrabbit’s. The knight stared up at him, nostrils flared. His eyes lingered on Stiles’s jaw and cheekbones before he met the squire’s gaze.

“Are you afraid of me?” He asked calmly.

“I thought you could smell strong emotions,” Stiles replied, dodging the question. He wasn’t really sure what the answer was.

Derek waved a hand around. “It smells like metal.” That sounded suspicious, but Stiles let it go. His gaze drifted to Derek’s pink lips. They looked so soft…Without realizing what he was doing, he leaned in, his eyes fluttering shut.

Derek tensed underneath him. Stiles felt the shift in his chest even as some armor slid off of his ribs and clattered to the floor. He jerked back from Derek, cheeks burning. What was he thinking? Oh gods, he’d almost kissed Derek. _He’d almost kissed Derek._

He lurched to his feet, eyes wide, and sprinted from the room. Still half-buried in armor, Derek covered his face with his hands and sighed long and loud.

 

Stiles bolted to the stables, finding Vespera waiting for him. She gave him a friendly whicker as he approached. He offered her a sugar cube, murmuring softly to her as she chewed her treat. The mare was untacked, but Stiles was an experienced enough rider to go bareback. She barely blinked as he heaved himself onto her back, gripping her slippery sides with his knees.

He rode Vespera out of the stables, pausing in the courtyard. He gestured to one of the servants—a large, frank man, who laughed at Stiles more often than his post would generally allow. The man strode over, keeping a wary eye on Stiles’s mare. The servants had all learned what a handful Gailavira was, and they refused to believe that Vespera was as similar to her as night was to day.

“If His Grace asks where I have gone, tell him I’m on a ride and I will return shortly,” Stiles instructed the man.

“And if he does not inquire?” The man joked. He always had been pert.

“Tell him anyway. But stay your hand for a time.” Stiles was aware how odd his request was, but he prayed the man would not comment. Gailavira was fast, but Vespera could outlast her—especially if she had a headstart.

“As you say, my lord,” The man bowed and turned to walk away.

“It’s Stiles!” The squire called after him; he received no response. He grumbled to himself that the servants had caught onto Derek’s unfortunate habit of selective silence.

Then he squeezed Vespera’s sides and gripped her mane tightly. Her gait was so smooth that he hardly had to worry about being jolted off, and so he began to enjoy the ride as she galloped down the road. This land was all Derek’s: his own fiefdom. He chose to live here instead of the palace because of his love of privacy. Stiles wondered how the acting commander of the King’s Guard was allowed to spend so much time away from the king.

And then he remembered that the king had an unfair advantage over any man who tried to take him down, because he was one of Lycaon’s sons as surely as Derek was. Stiles shuddered, thinking of the king’s sly blue eyes. There was something that had always struck him as strange about the way the king seemed to radiate command.

He supposed it came with being the monarch, though he never could recall the feeling from Derek’s father. It was odd that the royal line hadn’t continued down the same path. Laura was the heir to the throne, no matter her age. Peter should’ve acted as regent to her until she had become eighteen. And, following her death, Derek should’ve been king—with, of course, Peter as his regent until he was of age. But somehow Peter had ended up with the crown.

Everything about Peter felt _wrong_ to Stiles, but he dared not speak his treasonous thoughts to anyone. Not even Derek.

Oh gods. Especially not Derek.

As they turned a sharp corner, Vespera suddenly pulled up short, screaming and rearing. Without a saddle to keep him in place, Stiles thudded heavily to the ground. He’d landed on his arm wrong, but he quickly scrambled out of the way of the frightened mare’s flailing hooves. Pain flared; his wrist felt twisted and useless—sprained or broken, he could not tell. He dragged himself to the side of the road, gingerly keeping it tucked close to his body. The panicked mare turned tail, fleeing back to the castle.

Stiles groaned. No doubt Derek would admonish him for letting his horse go riderless back to the manor. He looked around then, trying to see what had frightened Vespera so. His gaze fell on a hooded figure on the opposite side of the road.

“Hail, fellow traveler!” Stiles called out, ignoring for now the fact that this poxy sow’s ass had caused his beloved mare to injure and then abandon him. Travelers here were few and far between—this road’s only purpose was to connect Derek’s manor to the town. He wondered what this person’s purpose was.

“Hail,” Replied a voice like deep black smoke, husky and dry and horribly familiar. “How fare thee, young lord Stilinski?”

“I cannot deny that I’ve had many a finer day,” Stiles said conversationally, but warily. Who was this strange traveler that recognized him by sight? His muscles thrummed in anticipation of flight, and his stomach tightened in terror. Why did his body respond to that voice this way? If only he could recall…

The figure removed the hood of their dark violet cloak, revealing a face that Stiles had come to loathe. Katherine Argent smiled at the squire, daintily stepping between the rocks that dotted the dirt road as she crossed to his side.

Stiles fought the urge to recoil. He was mostly successful; he ended up inching away only slightly. Thinking Katherine would regard him as weak, he covered the reflex by lurching to his feet. He cradled his wrist, though, which probably wasn’t beneficial to his imagined image of invulnerability.

 “What brings you here?” Katherine offered a coy smile.

“I was…just…exercising my mare.” Stiles lied haltingly. “I wonder what frightened her so.” That part was true, at least. Vespera was not a normally skittish horse.

Katherine frowned slightly, looking down. “Animals and I are not fond of each other,” She said, but quickly turned her face back up, smiling sunnily at Stiles.

The irony of that statement struck him like a slap to the face. His stomach dropped and he lurched back like she had physically struck him. Yes, she certainly didn’t get along well with animals. And vice versa, he was sure. Because she hunted and _murdered_ them, even if that meant tearing a man apart from the inside. Katherine watched him with a keen eye. He worked to control the anger and indignation and pain he felt for Derek’s sake. He couldn’t let Kate know that he knew about her treachery.

Before he could come up with a proper response, he heard the thundering of hoof beats. Knowing it was Derek, he prayed that the knight would turn off of the road onto some inconsequential path and gallop far away from here. He didn’t deserve to see the face of his sister’s killer again. She didn’t deserve to pick at a wound still unhealed.

“Stiles?” Derek shouted. His worry was audible. Stiles briefly felt flattered before dread settled in his stomach. The din of horse and rider suddenly grew much louder as Derek turned the corner. Derek’s gaze immediately fell on Stiles. Stiles glanced quickly at Katherine, whose eyes had turned toward the approaching duke, before he met Derek’s gaze with a probably unwarranted amount of sorrow.

Gailavira refused to approach Katherine. She stopped in her tracks, whinnying in terror. Her eyes rolled white and she started to rise on her hind legs. Derek pulled at her reins, masterfully forcing the mare back to the ground. She backed away, straining against Derek’s guiding hands. He struggled with her for a moment longer before he finally sighed and dismounted. After tying her reins to the saddle so that she wouldn’t trip and break anything, he slapped the mare’s rump and she immediately bolted, following in Vespera’s tracks.

When he turned to face Stiles and Katherine, his face was grim. He walked like an old man, like every step pained him. Finally, he came to a stop beside Stiles.

“Derek?” Stiles asked, tentatively laying a hand on his shoulder.

Derek nodded tightly at Stiles. His gaze was intense, focused on nothing but his squire. Stiles shrank a little under its power.

“Are you well?” He asked tightly. It sounded like it pained him to speak.

Stiles nodded back, not sure what to say. Derek turned his attention to Katherine. “Kate,”

“Ah, it’s been a while since you called me that,” She said with a flirtatious smile.

Derek nodded tightly again. It seemed he was barely capable of propriety around her—and not in the way Stiles was around Derek.

“What brings you here?” He asked. His face was stony, but Stiles could see how this was hurting him. Stiles squeezed Derek’s shoulder reassuringly, leaving his hand there.

“Well, it’s very interesting that you ask. I fancied a little visit with you,” She purred. Her eyes drifted up and down his body appreciatively. Stiles shuddered. Derek remained impassive.

“But why did you travel alone? Surely you realize that it’s dangerous,” Stiles suddenly interjected. His hand dropped from Derek’s shoulder as he stepped forward slightly, protectively positioning himself a little in front of the other man.

Kate smirked at him. “Surely _you_ realize I wouldn’t travel alone without certain protections in place.” A  heavy pause as Stiles considered this. “Haven’t you seen how animals react to me? _All_ animals?” She reached to pat Derek’s cheek patronizingly, her eyes on Stiles. Stiles instantly slapped her hand away with his uninjured hand.

“I like him,” She leaned to the side, speaking to Derek. “He has…a spark to him.”

Derek didn’t seem to find that comment worth responding to; he breathed very shallowly, all muscles tensed. Stiles shifted uneasily, wishing that he could escape.

“What do you say, Derek?” Kate asked after a moment, goading him. “Isn’t young Stilinski just delightful?”

Something about that remark snapped Derek away from whatever was bothering him and back to reality. He stood up a little straighter, eyes narrowing as he finally met Katherine’s gaze. The barest beginnings of a frown touched on her face before she regained control of her expression.

“His riding certainly needs work. As do his conversational skills. With your permission, my lady,” Derek spoke briskly and didn’t wait for said permission; instead, he grabbed Stiles by the back of his tunic and pulled him along as he stalked back toward the castle. Kate laughed delightedly, watching the two go.

Stiles kept a suspicious gaze on her for as long as he could. She wiggled her fingers at him in a dainty little wave. After they turned the corner, he finally twisted and broke Derek’s hold on him. The duke continued to stride angrily to his estate. Admittedly, they had quite the walk before them, but Stiles definitely did not want to spend that time walking next to a Derek who looked like a volcano waiting to explode. Muttering about rotten luck and wrongfully vengeful gods, Stiles followed, keeping his battered wrist close to his body.

“What were you doing talking to her? She’s a snake, Stiles. She’s dangerous. Don’t let her fool you.” Derek finally spoke. His voice was rough. Stiles cringed and looked down guiltily.

“I was riding Vespera. She spooked when we turned the corner and threw me. I swear, Derek, I didn’t know it was Lady Katherine.” He tried to catch Derek’s eye, but the duke was intently staring at the forest ahead of them. Stiles gave up and returned his gaze to the ground after he stumbled and almost fell.

Derek’s hand shot out to steady him, but he withdrew it immediately. Something like pain twisted his face for a moment. It was gone so quickly that Stiles questioned even seeing it, let alone exactly what it could have been.

“Are you going to just leave her out here?” Stiles asked after the silence became unbearable.

“Do you want me to turn around and go welcome her to my home? So she can destroy everything I care about? I suppose at least this time she would have my leave to do so,” Derek said bitterly.

Stiles grimaced and remained quiet after that. He knew what she had done to Derek. He _knew_ she was dangerous. He _knew_ she had killed Derek’s sister. Something in him insisted it wasn’t right to leave her alone, though. No matter what she thought about her skills, she was vulnerable if she was on her own. She didn’t deserve to die.

But he supposed Derek was right. Welcoming her to the fiefdom was courting trouble. What else was there to do besides return to the manor?

 

Derek didn’t speak another word to Stiles for the remainder of the journey. When they arrived at the castle, he spoke only to one of the grooms to ascertain that Gail and Vespera had returned safely. Then he disappeared to his rooms. Stiles warned the servants to let their master be. They scoffed—as if they couldn’t read their master’s mood.

Stiles left the castle almost immediately after they had returned. He barely sat through the nurse’s examination. She wrapped his wrist tightly, told him that it was just a minor sprain and he could take the bandage off after a week or so. He agreed without listening and hurried back to the stables. Vespera had been groomed and stabled already; he felt too guilty to work her again after her fright, so he took another horse. The gelding had a hard mouth and an attitude, but he was large enough to carry two.

Stiles supposed he should have a real excuse this time around. He waved around a letter he’d written for Scott a few days ago and claimed he was going to deliver it to the postmaster. No one questioned why he didn’t order a servant to do it for him. They all felt how flighty he was. Stiles was grateful then for Derek’s moodiness. His staff was accustomed to turning away and letting their master do as he would.

So Stiles found himself cursing at the old gelding as he stopped to graze. Their progress was much slower than he and Vespera’s had been. The gelding was almost slower than he and Derek had been when they’d walked back on foot. The sun was starting to set. At this rate, Stiles would miss dinner.

That simply could not stand.

He kicked again at the horse’s sides. He squeezed with his knees. He poked the gelding’s neck. He hated to use a whip, so he hadn’t brought one. Now he regretted his kindness, thinking that a quick flick of the wrist could have the duo on their way.

Eventually the gelding ate his fill and decided to respond to Stiles’s urging. Stiles grinned and kicked the horse into a canter.

He rode for another half hour, wondering aloud where in the heavenly realms _was_ Kate? He considered turning back, since they were fairly close to the town already and he had only planned to bring her back there and then drop her off. The gelding had been slowing down more and more, nickering lowly and unhappily, but Stiles ignored his protests and urged him on, reasoning that he might as well drop off his letter for Scott if he was going this far.

He regretted ignoring the gelding’s cues.

The body hung from a tree branch that was overhead the road. Stiles immediately recognized the heavy violet travelling cloak. Heart sinking, he dismounted from the gelding and tied the horse to a tree. The poor thing strained at his lead, trying to back further away from the corpse.

Katherine Argent’s throat had been slashed. Her body was littered with other gashes, but her face was left untouched. Her mouth was open, parted as if in surprise. Blue eyes stared dully into the distance.  Stiles’s own eyes watered and he angrily swiped at them. She was a murderer, he tried to reason with himself. She had gotten what was coming to her.

He knew he had to cut her down. He had to remove traces of human involvement so that this became an animal attack. He didn’t know who had killed her, but he intended to find out.

The tree branch wasn’t thick enough to support the both of them, so Stiles clambered onto the branch just beneath it. He balanced precariously, hooking the elbow of his injured arm over the branch by his head. Up close, the stench of blood was heavy in the air. He avoided looking into her eyes, despite their nearness; his stomach churned as it was.

Using his uninjured hand, he swiped his knife at the rope. Another swipe and the rope snapped. Stiles then cut away the rest of the rope, taking a moment to examine the way it had been knotted. It was unfamiliar to him. He looped it around his waist, and, with a sigh, climbed down from the tree.

Katherine’s body had fallen in a jumbled mess, her neck and spine twisting unnaturally. He laid her out carefully, then untied the rope from around her neck. The slash across her throat was what had killed her, he guessed. She’d been up in the tree to send some sort of message.

He dug through her pockets, leaving her money pouch alone. There was also a slightly macabre bone necklace—trophies of the wolves she had killed, he guessed. Some of those bones might be Laura’s. The thought made him cringe.

Stiles turned her on her side and curved her body, so that she was in fetal position. She hadn’t been killed long enough ago for her body to stiffen. He thanked the gods for that.

As an afterthought, he opened her mouth and peered in. He’d read that certain groups left tokens in the mouths of their victims as a calling card. He thought he saw something glimmering in the back of her throat, so he steeled himself and reached in, thankful for his intuition.

“This is not what I imagined when I thought of myself in someone’s mouth,” He muttered to himself, almost laughing. Then he shook his head. Now was not the time for humor, especially that foul brand of it. His groping fingers finally closed on hard metal. He pulled a ring out, a wide metal band stamped with a familiar family crest and what felt like an inscription on its inner side, though it was too dark to tell.

“Pox rot it all,” He told the old gelding, then closed Katherine’s staring eyes.

 

Finishing the ride to the town was grueling. He spent the journey readying himself to lie to the townspeople. Some were familiar to him—they even waved as he thundered past. He was well liked among the citizens for his quick wit and his insolence to Derek.

As they approached the town hall, he forgot himself and pulled so hard on the gelding’s reins that the horse’s head jerked back almost against his throat. Murmuring an apology, he gracelessly dismounted and stumbled in the door, using his uninjured hand to support himself against the doorframe. The city’s mayor looked up and smiled pleasantly, apparently not noticing the squire’s disheveled appearance and his panting.

“My lord Stilinski, how may I be of service to you on this fine evening?” The old man shuffled some papers on his desk and leaned back, finally giving Stiles his undivided attention. The pleasant smile disappeared in the wake of a puzzled frown.

“Mayor Wainwright, I found a dead body,” Stiles said. His distress was not feigned, but he played it up anyway. He reasoned that a squire who had never had to deal directly with death before shouldn’t be blasé about it. The mayor was not a naturally suspicious man, so he fell for Stiles’s act completely.

“Oh, gods. Where? Do you know the poor soul?” He fumbled for his cane and stood, leaning heavily on it.

“She was on the road that leads to His Grace’s manor. I don’t recognize her,” Stiles shook his head, speaking softly.

The mayor nodded stoutly. “Come, my boy, we’ll find the constable.” Stiles offered the man a supporting arm, and together they exited the town hall.

 

Hours passed before Stiles could begin the journey back home. The constable had insisted on questioning him—was he _sure_ he didn’t know her?—and then Stiles had been compelled to stay and oversee the body’s transport. He hadn’t stayed for the autopsy, though. He simply could not stomach it. The mayor assured him they would contact him and Duke Derek with any further news.

The old gelding was even less obedient on the ride back to the castle. When the gelding stopped to graze, Stiles sank to the ground beside him and waited until he had eaten his fill. Then he remounted the horse and spent his time brainstorming all the different dishes he could make with horse meat, sharing his best ideas with the gelding. He couldn’t bring himself to think any more about the dead woman or who might have killed her. He felt responsible for her death—what if they hadn’t left her alone out in the woods? But no, he reminded himself of his task. Horse stew was good, yes? Horse pie was better, he decided. The gelding snorted at him.

Thus, Stiles returned to Derek’s castle hours after night fell. He was stumbling with exhaustion, barely able to thank the groom who took the old gelding’s reins from him. At this point, all he wanted was to find his bed and to sleep for the next few days. But he knew he had to tell Derek before someone else did.

So he forced his weary legs to clamber up the stone steps, thanking all the gods he knew that Derek had cushioned them with a thick, velvety rug that, in turn, cushioned his feet. Derek’s rooms were on the highest floor of the main building. Stiles had never been inside, but he himself had a large bedchamber, a privy of his own, and a sitting room. Derek’s rooms were probably even more spacious and luxurious.

He paused outside Derek’s door, heart hammering in his chest. He was too exhausted to feel nervous like he usually did. Where generally he would be bouncing off the walls with excess, anxious energy, he simply felt dread pooling in the pit of his stomach.

He knocked on the dark wood. Derek opened the door almost immediately, a scowl already on his face.

“I told you not to—Oh. Stiles.” His face relaxed slightly.

Stiles smiled halfheartedly, gladdened by Derek’s reaction. Then he then sobered. “Your Grace…” He winced at the default to propriety. Derek would know something was very, very wrong. He could already see Derek’s frown returning. The knight leaned closer to Stiles, so close that his nose almost brushed Stiles’s jaw. The squire held very still, unsure of what exactly was happening.

“You smell like blood,” Derek said, finally pulling back. His gaze flitted up and down Stiles, assessing. Derek’s eyes fastened to his blood-stained fingers.

Stiles panicked and blurted. “Kate Argent is dead.”

Derek blinked, and then stood frozen for a few beats. Stiles could see the moment when his brain finally registered the information. He yanked Stiles into his rooms by his collar and slammed the door behind him, pushing him up against it.

“ _What_ did you just say?” His voice was dangerously low. Stiles felt it rumble in his chest.

“I found her body,” He stammered. His earlier exhaustion was forgotten; adrenaline surged through his body, making his hands shake. Derek’s proximity wasn’t helping the sudden burst of anxiety, either. “Her throat was cut, but she was hanging from a tree. I took her down before I went to town; I think they’ll blame a wild animal. I found this in her mouth,” He scrambled to get the ring, his knuckles brushing against Derek’s tree trunk of a thigh.

He finally grabbed hold of it and held it up for Derek’s inspection, begging the gods to let his furious blush go unnoticed. His wish was granted—Derek immediately focused on the ring. He took it from Stiles’s shaking hand and went to the wash basin to rinse away the gore. Stiles removed the bone necklace from his other pocket, shuddering at its savagery, and placed it on the Derek’s dresser. Perhaps it was a system of keeping trophies. Perhaps it was Kate’s “protection.” Either way, it was of lesser importance than the ring.

While Derek’s attention was distracted, Stiles focused on calming himself down. He breathed deeply, scrubbing his face. He suddenly became aware of how filthy he was, covered in dust from travelling. Blood stained his hands, he remembered. How horrible.

At that moment, Derek turned around with the newly cleaned ring.

“The inscription is the same as William’s ring,” Derek said, his voice deliberately steady. “Nous chassons ceux qui nous chassent.” The words were thick on his tongue; he stumbled around them, but the meaning was clear.

Stiles started to rub the back of his neck, stopping when he remembered his hands were bloody. “I think it means, ‘We hunt those who hunt us.’ I’m not sure, though. I’m still learning the language.”

Derek shot a startled glance at him. “What? Werewolves do no hunt people. We are predators, but we do not prey on humans.”

“Derek…” Stiles trailed off, unsure if he was overstepping himself. “Werewolves are dangerous…Some of the books I’ve studied have said that a bite can pass on the curse. They also said wolves run in packs and are very territorial.”

Derek shook his head, saying. “Only a bite from an alpha can pass the curse. There are very few. And wolves are territorial about other wolves; the innocent are left alone.”

Stiles shrugged. “It doesn’t change the fact that there are werewolves who aren’t born with the curse. They haven’t learned control the way you have. They’re a menace.” He swallowed, gathering his courage. “Lady Katherine was strung up in a tree, but she had was covered in claw marks. And there was a ring in her mouth. No wild animal could do all of that; but no human could kill her by clawing her to death. A werewolf did this, Derek. There isn’t another explanation.”

Derek began to pace, gripping the ring tightly. “I would know if there were unfriendly werewolves in the area.”

Stiles’s gaze flicked from the floor to Derek. “Are there _friendly_ werewolves in the area?”

“Yes.”

“And you didn’t think to, I don’t know, _tell me that_?!” Stiles exclaimed. One werewolf was bad enough, but suddenly there were others to worry about now. Who were they? How many of them were there?

He felt betrayed; he realized quickly that he didn’t have much of a right to the emotion, though. On the other hand, he’d thought maybe he and Derek were making progress. He’d thought they weren’t friends, but maybe they were companions. And if not companions, then comrades at least.

Evidently, they were none of the above.

Derek was suddenly very close to him. His face was like a thundercloud, and he loomed right into Stiles’s space. Stiles inched back until he felt the wall behind him. Derek moved with him.

“I think,” He said slowly, eyes glowing very red. Stiles tried to shrink further away, but found it impossible. “I think that you have forgotten your place. You are my squire. You will do what I say, and you _will not_ disrespect me.

“You have constantly undermined my authority since even before you were my personal servant. I have watched you undermine the authority of a man so far above you that it’s surprising you’re even part of the same species. Ha! Now that I think of it, you truly aren’t the same species. You’ve even gone so far as to disobey _direct_ _orders_ from your superiors. I have let you do all of this because I am generous, and because my uncle and king asked me to take you on. My generosity has come to an end.” He leaned in, his lips brushing Stiles’s ear as he whispered. “From now on, you are my bitch.”

 

Derek didn’t speak to Stiles for three days after that. Apparently that was part of the bitch treatment. Stiles ignored his feelings toward the matter and holed himself up in the library, researching the Argentum and magic. The bandits they’d encountered so long ago had claimed to be Argentum. The same Argentum who claimed to protect those who could not protect themselves. He’d considered the possibility that they’d been bluffing.

But that didn’t explain their sudden and gruesome death.

The letters of the book he struggled to read began to swim. Words meshed together, forming a strange new language that he couldn’t hope to decipher because it changed every time he glanced away. Finally, he slammed it shut, folding his arms over it and resting his forehead there. He shifted a few times before he found something comfortable for his injured wrist and his aching neck.

A thought occurred to him: what if the men had died _because_ they claimed to be Argentum?

Did the Argentum have some means of knowing when their name was being falsely used? What magic would they use for that? Stiles was wholly unfamiliar with magic and everything about it. He’d heard rumors of it all of his life, and the stories he heard often had sorcerers and witches. Its existence hadn’t been confirmed until those men had died right before him, though.

What if the men _had_ been Argentum, and they’d been killed for disobeying the code? That would explain Kate’s death as well…Except she should have died years ago, back when Laura had been killed. Maybe they had a trial system, and she had been acquitted. And she’d committed some crime recently? But she’d died by werewolf claws, not a scorched throat.

He sighed and shifted again, recognizing a dead end when he saw one. His thoughts turned to Derek. He’d done a very good job of avoiding thinking about him during the past few days. But…what in the Almighty’s name had that been? He considered Derek’s other violent outbursts. The near-strangling at the squire ceremony. The frantic chase through Gentian’s manor. Then he considered Derek’s kindnesses. Takara. Vespera. He had bared himself to Stiles in a way that no one ever had. He’d told him about Kate’s role in his sister’s death; thus his own soul-crushingly heavy guilt became apparent.

But all of that meant nothing, apparently. Because now Stiles was just his bitch. Nothing more.

They weren’t friends. No, they weren’t companions, or even comrades.

He drifted off to sleep, with tense shoulders and a thoughtful frown marking his features.

 

When he woke, Derek sat across from him.

Stiles stood immediately and bowed at the waist. “Your Grace,” He said formally, eyes downcast.

“You may sit. I have news for you.” Derek’s voice was a monotone. It was horrible to Stiles, who knew what Derek sounded like when he was surprised, enthusiastic, sarcastic, impressed, and even amused. He wanted nothing more than to hear and see emotion in Derek. Anything—even hatred—was better than this.

But there wasn’t much he could do, so he seated himself and looked deferentially down at his clasped hands.

“They have ruled Lady Katherine Argent’s death as an animal attack. There will be no further investigation. I have found no traces of intruding werewolves in my territory, which expands much further than the town. We will travel to the palace; we leave at dawn tomorrow. And we will be stopping at Baron Deaton’s holdings for a day.”

This last piece of information had Stiles perking up unintentionally. He nodded coolly, though, keeping his gaze downturned. “As you say, Your Grace.”

Derek sat for a moment longer, looking like he had more to say. Eventually, Stiles breached etiquette to meet his gaze. He stared into Derek’s green-grey-hazel-blue eyes, trying to decipher his mentor. Derek studied Stiles’s face, his gaze touching briefly on his lips and his jaw and his creased brow before settling on his eyes.

The tension was palpable, though Stiles was certain he felt it differently than Derek. For Derek, the tension was undoubtedly platonic; he wanted something from Stiles, or was steeling himself to tell Stiles something more. For Stiles the tension was all kinds of hormonal. He wanted to feel Derek in every possible way—fingers, lips, _tongue_ —he wanted to know where his scars were and what they were from, and he wanted Derek to grip him so hard that he left bruises, and he wanted Derek to hold him like he was something fragile to be treasured. He wanted Derek to mark him up with his mouth so that the whole world knew just who Stiles belonged to. He _really_ wanted to be Derek’s bitch.

Eventually, Derek spoke, breaking Stiles from his trance. His voice was all rough edges and fracture lines. It cracked something deep inside Stiles. “I’m so sorry, Stiles.”

Stiles started to speak, but Derek held up a finger, asking him to wait. Stiles nodded and settled back in his chair. Derek stared at his knotted fingers, finding it easier to speak to his hands than the boy.

“I’ve done many things of which I am ashamed. I cannot accurately express how often and how intensely I have regretted my treatment of you. From the very beginning, I’ve threatened and hurt you. While you are occasionally…insubordinate—“ a wry smile ”—that does not warrant my actions. They seem…acceptable at the time. I feel like I _should_ assert my dominance, almost like it’s the expected thing for me to do. Sometimes I don’t even know what I’m doing. Then when you leave, my head clears, and I can’t…” He paused, and Stiles’s heart twisted in sympathy at the raw emotion on Derek’s face. “I can’t reconcile myself with what I’ve done. I acted like Peter would have.”

Finally, he looked back up at Stiles. “I’m sorry, Stiles,” He repeated.

The silence grew heavy, because Stiles was too busy reeling with a sudden realization to respond to Derek. _I acted like Peter would have._ What ifDerek wasn’t acting like himself because he wasn’t himself? He wasn’t in control of his actions: Peter was.

But Stiles couldn’t _tell_ him that. Peter could be watching. This could be Peter right now. A long, apologetic speech was certainly out of character. What if Stiles didn’t actually know Derek? All he knew was the puppet that Peter had been toying with. His heart ached fiercely at that thought—he ignored that and its implications while his mind wrestled with the concept of Peter controlling Derek.

Peter was violent and clever and horribly cruel. Stiles had heard such awful rumors about him, he didn’t even know where to begin. And Derek was the opposite. That would explain the polarity of Derek’s behavior. Maybe his eyes were the tell? The flashing red and blue?

Was that even possible? Stiles didn’t think so. But Stiles’s concerning lack of knowledge in regards to magic had recently become very, very apparent. He suddenly felt stressed beyond belief. He had to remind himself this was just a suspicion, and that he had absolutely no evidence to back it up.

Derek ran a hand nervously through his hair, the silence growing too long. “Stiles?”

“Eh? Oh. It’s nothing. Of course it’s nothing. You haven’t anything to apologize for.” He beamed at the knight, who eyed him suspiciously for a moment. Then Derek deflated, the tension visibly leaving his shoulders. His breath whooshed out of him in one big gust.

Stiles chewed his lip as Derek met his gaze. What should he do?

 

Their conversation eventually turned to tense small talk. Both were wary of riling the other up, so they stuck to the most inane topics imaginable. Stiles thought his head would burst if he had to hear another word about Gail’s adventures with the farrier. He waited until there was a lull and then declared that he deserved to use an actual bed for the first time in a few days. Derek snorted but didn’t comment, understanding that this was Stiles’s request for dismissal.

Stiles didn’t actually use his bed for hours, though. He paced, trying to work his mind around every issue he faced. Kate Argent’s death—who had killed her? How could he stop the Argentum from attacking Derek again? Were Derek’s violent moods a result of a character flaw or was he being controlled—or influenced, at least—by his uncle? And if the latter, why would Peter be inclined to foster hatred in Stiles? Oh, and what in the name of the Almighty was Stiles going to do about his attraction to Derek? It would ruin him if he let it continue; before he knew it, he’d try to act on one of his fantasies and it would destroy his friendship with Derek.

A gentle knock interrupted his musings. He stilled and stared at the door, wondering if he’d imagined it. The knock came again, more insistent.

“Who is it?” Stiles asked.

“Derek.” Came the curt answer. Was he dreaming? No, no, he wasn’t. Derek would’ve been happier-sounding if this was in his mind.

Stiles rushed to open the door, thinking Derek had important news to share (though why he would have gotten the news at this particular hour was beyond him). “What is it?”

Derek was shirtless, disheveled, and decidedly unhappy. “Go to sleep. I can hear you _thinking_ from two floors away.”

Stiles nodded dumbly, his mind a little overwhelmed by smooth planes of muscle and pale, perfect skin. He quickly shifted his gaze to Derek’s face, failing to realize that that wasn’t going to help his cognition skills. Derek’s eyes were made to be seen by the moon. They were stunning in the silvery, slanting light.

“Erm…Yeah...” Stiles said elegantly.

As if he could hear his thoughts, Derek gave him a smirk before he walked away. Stiles leaned out of the doorway to stare after him. Derek’s eyes may have been made for the moonlight, but his ass was a work of art in _any_ situation. And was that a _tattoo_ between his shoulders? When he realized what he was doing, Stiles groaned at his foolishness and shut the door quickly.

He collapsed into bed, but his mind continued to wrestle with his predicament for many minutes.

 

The next morning, it was Derek who woke Stiles. The servants refused to even try, risking impertinence over attacking the task of waking Stiles. It _was_ a daunting task, almost Sisyphean. Every time Derek turned his back on Stiles, he found that the squire’s head had reacquainted itself with his pillow.

Derek stole his covers, piling the blankets unceremoniously on the ground. Stiles shuddered and groaned at the sudden cold but didn’t seem inclined to move. Derek took his pillow next, wresting it from the moaning boy’s iron grip. Stiles glared at him with one eye before he curled into a ball and rested his head on his arm, determined to ignore Derek’s efforts.

Derek, tiring of Stiles’s antics, bodily picked him up, hoping it would shock the squire into wakefulness.

No such luck. Stiles seemed more inclined to spend his time cradled against Derek’s chest than he did to stay in bed. He immediately slung his arms around Derek and buried his face into the space between the older man’s neck and shoulder, mumbling sleepily. Of course, he was unaware of what he was doing. But Derek knew very well that this was scentmarking. His wolf was even more aware, and it urged him to reciprocate, to mark Stiles as Stiles was marking him.

So he dropped Stiles, finding himself unable to gently put the boy back on the bed while ignoring his wolf and its traitorous desires.

“What in the name of golden Lanyr!” Stiles shouted as he hit the ground, calling upon the god of peace and prosperity. Which was ironic, considering.

“It’s about time,” Derek muttered. “We’re leaving.”

“Why are we leaving?” Stiles whined. He started to climb back into bed, but Derek grabbed his shoulders and propelled him toward the wardrobe. “What do you want?” Stiles battered ineffectually at the knight’s hands, keening piteously as he was pushed closer and closer to the wardrobe.

“Get yourself ready. If we leave soon and ride hard, we can reach Deaton’s manor tonight.” Derek replied, going so far as to reach around Stiles and unlatch the door for the squire. His proximity seemed to unnerve Stiles, who recoiled. Derek grinned, his memory of Stiles’s cheek on his neck fresh in his mind. The boy was a walking paradox, a mess of oxymorons. It was like he was embarrassed by his desire for closeness. And, really, that desire wasn’t anything unusual.

“Why are you so happy?” Stiles griped, turning away from his mentor as he dug around for his riding clothes. “You’re never happy. Why now? Of all the time in the day, you choose _the morning_ to be cheerful.”

Derek had no response for that. He turned to leave, after meeting Stiles’s eyes with a shrug. At the door, he paused and turned back. His wolf was _begging_ him to go back and scentmark Stiles. While he could overpower that particular desire, he couldn’t really help his desire to just _look_ one more time.

Stiles had shucked his nightclothes and stood with his back to Derek, clad only in his underwear. The knight’s eyes flickered all over Stiles’s back, tracing its shape and its spattering of moles, then slid down his toned, slender legs. Derek smiled, remembering how scrawny Stiles had been only months ago. His harsh physical training had put pounds of muscle on his squire. And Stiles wore it well.

Derek left before Stiles turned around, a faint blush coloring his cheeks at the thought of being caught.

 

The squire and the knight packed provisions for a week’s journey, despite Stiles’s objections. He complained that the trip would take longer if they were weighed down with unnecessary supplies, to which Derek replied that the trip would also take longer if Stiles didn’t stop complaining. Stiles muttered something foul about clay-brained haggards, but swallowed the rest of his protests. Derek smirked at him, and Stiles realized that Derek _could hear him_.

He coughed abruptly and adjusted Vespera’s saddle one last time, trying to hide his blazing cheeks. Derek didn’t comment, choosing to mount Gail in one fluid motion instead. Gailavira chewed at the bit, impatient to move. Derek stared at Stiles, waiting for him to mount Vespera, and the squire relished the moment. The memory of Derek riding away while that lumpish stablehand watched and laughed was very, very fresh in his mind.

He mounted the dark mare and grinned as Derek waited impatiently. Stiles squeezed Vespera’s sides with his knees and whooped as she lunged into a gallop. Derek was right on his heels, gaining quickly. Instead of surging ahead of him, as Stiles had expected, the knight simply kept pace when he drew even. They couldn't maintain the headlong run for long, but Stiles enjoyed the feeling of the wind too much to let it end so quickly.

Derek seemed content to let Stiles set the pace. Stiles was filled with an unexplainable joy at the trust this implied. He beamed at Derek, who smiled back; it was rare to see such a genuine expression of happiness from him, untainted by any sort of irony.

It was the little things that made Stiles the happiest. He continued to mull over the marvel that was Derek’s face as he slowed Vespera to a smooth canter.

 

They reached Deaton’s manor just as the sun was setting. Derek was cordial. Stiles and Scott were elated. They chattered incessantly all through dinner. Scott eagerly told Stiles about everything he had learned from Deaton, who was a physician as well as a respected knight. Deaton chimed in occasionally, expounding on Scott’s accomplishments when his squire didn’t recount them to his satisfaction. Scott glowed with pleasure every time Deaton praised him. Derek seemed content to listen, offering nothing more than base commentary on the food or the décor.

Stiles was just as eager to tell Scott about his own experience as a squire. He boasted wildly about his improvement in combat. Derek smirked occasionally, amused, but didn’t refute his claims.

“Fencing is probably my strongest point,” Stiles announced. “I haven’t lost a match for weeks. Except for when Derek is my opponent.” That one was true, actually. And Derek had told Stiles that he was a worthy adversary, despite the advantages offered by werewolf senses.

Scott flapped a dismissive hand at him. “You’re a terrible fencer. You always have been. I could beat you blindfolded.”

Stiles’s chest puffed out indignantly. “That’s not true.”

“Oh?” Scott taunted. “Remember in page-training when you—“

“I challenge you to a duel.” Stiles interjected quickly. He didn’t need Scott unearthing old embarrassments. His simplest mistakes plagued him for years. Sometimes, alone and sleepless in his bed, he still cringed about faux-pas from his childhood.

Scott grinned and offered Stiles a hand to shake. “I accept your challenge. It would be my pleasure.”

Stiles didn’t see Derek’s flaring nostrils, or Deaton placing a restraining hand on the younger knight’s elbow.

 

They waited until after dinner to have the match, even though Stiles complained that his fencing game would be affected by bloat. Scott told him to stop making excuses even as he gulped his mug of ale. Stiles stared longingly, but knew that it wasn’t even worth meeting Derek’s gaze over. Derek had repeatedly, consistently shot down any sort of request Stiles had made to the effect of alcohol consumption. He claimed it was because alcohol was detrimental to a youth’s development, but Stiles knew that he was worried about Stiles’s tongue being loosened. Stiles was a liability now that he knew about werewolves and the Argentum. Derek’s worry _was_ reasonable. But Stiles still wanted spirits.

Scott led Stiles to Deaton’s indoor practice court. They donned the leather armor used for practice duels, but hefted sharpened swords. As Stiles stretched, Derek wandered over; Deaton kept a sharp eye on the knight. So Derek simply watched his squire’s fluid movements, his gaze occasionally flicking over to where Scott was warming up.

Finally, as Stiles was just finishing, he grabbed the boy’s shoulder and whispered directly into his ear, “Be cautious.”

Stiles frowned, shaking Derek’s hand off of his shoulder. Why hadn’t Derek offered him better advice? Or at least said something motivational? This made it seem like his own mentor didn’t think he was capable of handling himself. But it also made Stiles all the more determined to win.

Scott and Stiles squared off, shaking hands and crossing swords. Deaton and Derek stood on either side of the court, acting as both spectators and judges.

“Fight honorably,” Deaton called out. “The duel is over when blood is drawn.”

The two squires immediately broke away from each other, circling in synchronization. Stiles’s gaze jumped all over Scott, moving both jerkily and precisely. He watched how his best friend moved, trying to find a weakness. His wrist was still sore, but he wouldn’t give Scott the satisfaction of marking that as a weak point until he had no other choice.

Scott feinted high; Stiles didn’t fall for it.  Again, he feinted, an aborted swipe at Stiles’s thigh this time. Again, Stiles didn’t flinch. Instead, he threw an experimental blow at Scott: one from the Crane set. Scott blocked it almost before Stiles moved. Eyes widening, Stiles stepped away. Scott grinned and countered.

The match quickly became an unintelligible flurry of attacks and parries from both sides. Scott was incredibly fast and even when he blocked, Stiles’s arms were jarred by the force behind his movements. He was not a strategic fighter, though. He moved in response to Stiles’s blows and seemed to have no plan.

Stiles, on the other hand, maneuvered himself closer and closer to Scott every chance he got. Takara was shorter than Scott’s sword by a few inches; he couldn’t let Scott push him away if he had the longer reach.

Eventually, Stiles was too close for Scott to put the same power behind his swings as he had before. Stiles’s movements gained speed and confidence as he batted Scott’s attacks away again and again. At one point, their swords’ hilts locked. This was dangerous for Stiles, who was slenderer than Scott, despite his half-inch of height advantage. The heavier boy levered his weight down, trying to force Stiles to his knees. His face was a mask of grim determination.

Stiles groaned and, with great effort, flicked his injured wrist to unlock the hilts. A metallic screech rang through the air, and Scott jumped away from Stiles. Stiles followed, staying right up in Scott’s space, sliding Takara against the other boy’s longsword while he flailed. Another flick of Stiles’s wrist and he had disarmed the other squire.

Scott stared at his empty hand in shock. Stiles grinned at him when he finally looked up. He slapped Stiles’s shoulder and gave him a congratulatory handshake.

“The match hasn’t finished,” Deaton reminded them from the sidelines. He looked as enigmatic as ever.

Derek scoffed. “It’s over. Stiles won.”

“It isn’t over until someone draws blood,” Deaton rebuked. Derek shot him a venomous glare, but he could not protest. Derek may have been superior in terms of the King’s Guard, but Deaton was senior in experience. And they were staying at his estate. Respect, and adhesion to etiquette, was paramount.

Scott and Stiles stared at each other. After a moment, Scott shrugged and extended his hand to Stiles, baring his unarmored forearm. Stiles shook his head, also glaring at Deaton.

“Why isn’t it over? He doesn’t stand a chance after he’s been disarmed, not if his sword is that far away,” Stiles protested, gesturing at the longsword; it was a good distance away, too far for Scott to lunge for.

“The rules were clear,” Deaton replied firmly.

Stiles scoffed in disgust and removed his glove. Scott started to object, but Stiles ignored him. He slid Takara against his own palm and held it up for Deaton to see. Blood dripped from his open hand, down his arm and all over the floor.

“There. The match is over.” He spat, face twisting. “Congratulations,” He directed this at Scott, who shrank away.

Stiles slammed Takara into his sheath and stalked angrily out the doors. Derek looked like he was going to say something to Deaton, but he just shot another glare at the man before he followed Stiles out of the court. Scott looked at Deaton pleadingly, but Deaton shook his head. Scott sighed and exited the court as well, heading opposite of Derek and Stiles.

The dark knight stroked his chin for a moment, grinned, and then followed Scott out.

 

Stiles didn’t know where to go. He’d glared at Derek until the knight had let him alone, shaking his head and turning away. Neither of them had even had to say a word; it was easy enough for Stiles to decipher Derek’s responses from the set of his eyebrows. And Stiles knew his own face was expressive. Silent communication was becoming easier and easier as the duo’s relationship developed.

Deaton and Scott hadn’t yet shown Stiles and Derek to their guest rooms. The manor was a maze of hallways, populated with frequent and inexplicable dead ends. He just wanted a door between him and everyone else—a barrier so that he could sit and _think,_ unaffected by anything. Eventually, he happened upon Deaton’s expansive library. For a moment, he considered losing himself in research. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time he distracted himself that way.

Then he shook his head and walked on. No more distractions.

His steps had long ago lost their irate fire. He walked like an exhausted old man, stopping frequently to lean against a wall and gather his strength. His hand dripped blood continuously, though he refused to find someone to help him bind it. When he came to the entry, he almost cried out from frustration.

But then he remembered the stables—Vespera’s stall was a peaceful place to think. His mare was docile and far from judgmental. It had double appeal because his heartbeat would be lost among the dozens of horses; Derek couldn’t track him down and fix him with his stupidly intense blue-green-hazel-what-the-hell-ever gaze.

So, about ten minutes later, he slipped into his mare’s stall and cooed at her, offering her an apple he’d picked from Deaton’s trees. As she crunched cheerfully, he sank to the floor, leaning back against the smooth wood of the door. And then he breathed, taking a moment to examine his hand. It was a deep cut, but its edges were clean. Takara’s edge was keen enough to split a hair. He yanked off his armor like a petulant child, throwing it at the far wall. Vespera started at the clamor initially, but grew calm when Stiles rested a hand against her shoulder.

“My good girl,” Stiles murmured, thumbing the thick muscle. She nuzzled him, and he smiled half-heartedly.

Stiles stripped away his tunic and tore the sleeve into strips, binding his hand. He tied it off with his teeth and then leaned back heavily. His elbows rested on his knees, and his chest was bare; the discarded, ruined tunic had joined his armor in the corner.

“Sucellos, the Almighty,” Stiles prayed aloud. Religion dictated that the Almighty’s true name was not to be used except for in times of desperate need. To call upon him otherwise invited his direct attention and could result in a smiting if he was annoyed by the mortal’s plea. Stiles wasn’t particularly religious, but he thought that if anything could help him right now, it would be a divine being. “I ask of you your guidance and strength. Andraste, queen of the Eternal Kingdom, share with me your wisdom. I thank you both for what you have already given me. I pray now that you are kind to me and allow my life to be a peaceful one, untainted by treachery or strife. I pray that those I love will lead long, happy lives and die peacefully.”

He dropped his forehead against his forearms, breathing deeply. The last time he had prayed so thoroughly, his mother had been alive. The grief was old and familiar, its sting even more so. He ignored it, trying to distract himself before he spiraled into a miserable mess.

When the gods hadn’t taken an interest in his most heartfelt pleas (for the life of his mother), he’d lost interest in worshipping them. His mother’s death had ultimately been the foundation for his aggressive desire to preserve all forms of life—no one deserved to suffer the way he had. Any life he took was a life taken from a family of some sort. If he killed an enemy soldier, he inflicted upon that man’s family the same grief that his mother’s death had caused him. Unfortunately, the world wasn’t fair.

The church spoke of a time long past when the gods were active in the lives of mortals, often disguising themselves to walk in the mortal world and influencing humans one way or another. Their involvement often led to wars—or they chose sides in wars that had already started, making their scale grander and the loss of life even larger. Lycaon’s war had set the two Great Ones against each other, and the violence had been the greatest Arcadia (or any kingdom, for that matter) had ever experienced. He brushed those useless thoughts away, though, determined to focus on his problems. Deaton’s strange behavior had rattled him. So had Derek’s outbursts. Kate Argent’s murder. The Argentum. It was all just too much to bear.

He felt himself breathing faster and faster, but it also felt like his lungs were constricting on themselves. He couldn’t fill them with air, no matter how hard he tried. His heart was pounding too hard, taking up all the space in his chest cavity. His ribs were a cage that he simultaneously strained to fill with breath and to escape from. Nothing would free him more than escape from himself, from the reality of his life.

A gentle touch on his shoulder startled him, and he looked up, still straining to breathe. A woman clad in golden armor knelt before him. Her eyes were the color of dawn, milky purple and grey—the color of a promise and a beginning. She only breathed one word, his name, but he felt his heart calming and his lungs expanding. His breath slowed and evened until he could finally gasp her name in return.

“Andraste?”

She nodded and stood, taking a step back. Beside her stood a man clad in the same golden armor as she. He had a fine, strong jaw and straight, dark brows. His skin was almost as dark as the desert dwellers of the east. His eyes glowed crimson underneath the shadow cast by his golden helm. Built into the helmet was a magnificent crown, accented with sleek obsidian and glittering rubies.

“Sucellos?” Stiles asked, jaw slackening even as he spoke.

“That is my name—one of many. And yours…they call you Stiles, don’t they?” The man smiled. His voice was musical, but dissonant. It sounded like the thunder of a thousand horses galloping, like the twisted harmony of twin wolf packs howling discordant melodies

Stiles shifted his weight forward, so that it was all on his knees. Idly, he noted that he was kneeling on silver-streaked marble, almost too bright to look at. It occurred to him that the gods must have transported him to somewhere outside the worldly realm. Or they had somehow separated his body from his consciousness. Which sounded farfetched, but, then again, the creator of the world knew his nickname.

The god commanded Stiles’s attention as he spoke again. His face had become stern, his mouth a grim line. “Stiles. You are the spark. You must trust your instincts, or Arcadia will fall to ruin. The fate of this kingdom is in your hands.”

“I’m the spark?” Stiles asked, looking up. The two immortals nodded at him. Their outlines were growing hazy. “What does that mean?”

“Every action you take holds importance. Fate has decreed that you hold immeasurable power. At the crossroads, it will be your decision that paves the future of Arcadia, be it one of glory or despair. You have been entangled in a web of magic and treachery. Be cautious.” The goddess’s voice enveloped him like waves crashing on the seashore, but foremost on Stiles’s mind was the way she had echoed the last words Derek had said to him.

“But…why me?” Stiles heard himself ask. He felt as if the immortals were growing farther away. His time in their world was drawing to a close.

“The gods have had a hand in your life since your birth,” Sucellos said. He was fading, and his wolf-pack voice was growing more distant with every word. “It has always been you.”

Stiles jerked back into himself with a shout. It was pitch black, and he was swathed in blankets. He caught sight of two glowing blue eyes.

“Derek?” He asked, heart hammering in his chest. Fear spread through him like black ink through water. Where was he? Who was that?

“It’s me.” Derek came at Stiles fast, the impact rocking the boy back; however, Derek pulled up at the last second, gentling his touch. Derek’s arms snaked around his squire, pulling Stiles tight against him. Almost immediately, he loosened his grip and started to draw back, muttering thickly—apologies and excuses, no doubt. But Stiles threw his arms around Derek’s shoulders, holding him tight. He didn’t care that all of Derek’s weight was on his thighs; he pressed his face against the knight’s neck, exhaling in relief.

Derek disentangled himself, and Stiles felt like he’d been punched in the gut. Why had he expected anything more? Of course it was just a heat of the moment embrace. Derek meant nothing by it.

But Derek was only moving Stiles over so that there was room on the bed for both of them. He climbed in and gathered Stiles in his arms, his body shook with sobs—Derek refused to let them out, though, shaking soundlessly against the squire.

“Stiles,” He said over and over. He shook his head when Stiles tried to ask what had happened, breathing roughly rather than answering. So the boy clambered into his lap and held Derek just as tightly while Derek shuddered against him; he ran his hands through the knight’s hair, across his wide back, down his arms. Derek smelled like pine and leather and wildness. His misery clung to him like a tangible thing.

Finally, he calmed. Stiles felt it as Derek’s breath slowed, chest finally rising and falling in a reasonable pattern. He slowly loosened his grip, pulling back just far enough that he could stare into Derek’s eyes. They were still glowing blue, bright enough that Stiles could see himself in them.

“Derek?” Stiles asked tentatively. “What happened?”

The knight sighed hard, body tensing. Stiles fought the jittery feeling in his gut that came with the realization that he could _feel Derek’s muscles tightening_ because _his legs were wrapped around him._ His heart gave him away, he was sure, but somehow he couldn’t find it in himself to care.

“Oh, gods, Stiles…I thought you were going to die. Deaton couldn’t wake you.” He unconsciously drew Stiles closer. “He tried everything. He said there was nothing to do, because you belonged to another world.”

Stiles stroked Derek’s shoulder reassuringly. “How long was I gone for?”

“Three days,” He sighed, looking down. “I sent a message to Peter, telling him that we’d be delayed. I told him that you’d fallen ill. Though, of course, I couldn’t say with what.”

Stiles froze in shock. Three days? Gods, imagine if the immortals had had more to say. He might have spent his life in the Eternal Kingdom, his body wasting away in this bed.

“What happened, Stiles?” Derek asked. He held Stiles loosely, but the squire felt the wealth of emotion accompanying his question. The werewolf’s eyes had dimmed, leaving them in the darkness.

“I prayed to the gods…The Almighty and Andraste took me to the Eternal Kingdom and appeared before me. They said I was ‘the spark’ and that the fate of Arcadia rests in my hands. What does that mean? How is that even possible? I could never affect Arcadia so much.” He rested his head on Derek’s shoulder. It felt like a pit had opened in his stomach, but instead of swallowing his emotions, it radiated stress until he felt as tense as a coiled wire.

Derek pulled back, waiting until Stiles met his gaze. “Stiles, you are the single most important thing in this kingdom.”

Stiles started to smile wryly, but then the gravity of the moment caught up to him. Derek’s eyes smoldered with an icy fire, again casting light onto Stiles’s features. The squire and the knight watched each other silently, each battling with a primal desire.

Derek was so beautiful. This close, Stiles could count his eyelashes. Stiles longed to touch the curve of his cheekbones; he longed to trace the line of Derek’s noble jaw, spattered with the most perfect stubble in the history of facial hair. It was the shape of Derek’s lips, though, that broke Stiles’s resolve. The perfect dip of his cupid’s bow…

Stiles leaned in, eyes fluttering shut. One hand wrapped around the back of Derek’s neck, his fingers sliding through Derek’s thick, dark hair. He felt Derek’s hand cup his cheek, Derek’s exhaled breath on his chin. His heart beat like a rabbit’s.

A hair’s breadth separated their lips when Derek suddenly, forcefully pulled back. He disentangled himself from Stiles, scrambling messily away and leaving his hurt and dumbfounded squire sitting cross legged on the bed.

Scott burst through the door, shedding light on the scene. He tackled Stiles, much in the same way Derek had. Stiles held him, just as he had held Derek, and met the older knight’s eyes as Scott sobbed unashamedly against him.

“I thought you were going to _die._ You didn’t even smell like yourself. Even now, you smell kind of…” Scott trailed off as he cried against his shoulder. He rubbed his cheek against Stiles’s neck, wetting the other boy’s skin with his tears.

“I didn’t smell like myself?” Stiles frowned. From the other side of the room, Derek groaned.

Scott sniffed, sitting up. He wiped at his cheeks before as met Stiles’s gaze with surprise. “I thought you knew.”

“Knew what?” Stiles asked. And even as the words came out of his mouth, it all clicked into place. Scott’s sense of smell, his frankly inhuman speed and strength—and now, his impeccable timing.

“I’m a werewolf,” Scott said seriously.

Stiles blinked once, twice. And then unexplainably forceful anger burst into bloom inside him, blossoming like some lecherous flower.

“No.” He said aloud, the calmness of his voice belying the intensity of his emotion. _No_. Scott wasn’t a werewolf. No one had bitten his best friend. Scott couldn’t grow fangs and hair on a whim. He wasn’t irrevocably entangled in the world of the supernatural.

_It wasn’t fair._ Scott was the only normal thing about Stiles. Maybe Stiles had lost his mother. Maybe he wasn’t even close to passable with courtship. Maybe he was _too_ good at logic. Maybe he had a crush on his mentor. Maybe he’d been spirited away for three days by deities he hadn’t believed in a week ago. But Scott was his best friend—no, his _brother_ —and that was normal. There was nothing extraordinary about Scott, except maybe his loyalty and compassion.

Nothing else.

“Not fair,” Stiles choked, his gaze dropping to his fisted hands.

Scott made a sympathetic noise and wrapped himself more firmly around Stiles. “I’m sorry. I wish I could have told you sooner. I swore an oath not to, but then Deaton released me from it.”

“Why would I have known, then?” Stiles asked, voice muffled against Scott’s shoulder. He chose to compartmentalize his anger rather than try to move past it in that moment.

“Well, Deaton knew about Derek, and Derek told Deaton that you knew about him, too. So after we fought, I thought you’d have guessed. Deaton told me that I was lucky he hadn’t had any other guests, and that none of the servants had stopped to watch.” Scott’s voice dragged with a sense of misery at disappointing his mentor. “I must work on controlling myself. But I found my anchor, at least.”

Scott’s demeanor flipped as he pulled back from Stiles and grinned dopily. Stiles eyed him in a calculating manner before eyeing Derek the same way over Scott’s shoulder. The knight shrugged.

“Anchor?” Stiles said, eyes back on Scott.

“Her name is Allison…” Scott trailed off, apparently getting lost in the very thought of her.

“And?” Stiles prompted, arms folding across his chest.

“She’s perfect.” Scott replied, beaming at Stiles with the force of the sun. Stiles felt the need to shade his eyes or at least squint against the brightness. As Stiles caught Derek’s gaze, the older man rolled his eyes. He looked like he was smelling something unpleasant.

“She sounds wonderful,” Stiles muttered as he pushed past Scott and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. As soon as he tried to stand, his knees buckled and he started to drop. Scott caught him by his elbow, hoisting him back onto the bed. Stiles shot a glance at Derek, who was reseating himself in his chair, brushing lint off of his chest in an attempt to look casual. Stiles saw right through it and quirked a brow at the knight, who scowled in response.

“...careful, you should probably stay there for now.” Stiles tuned back into Scott’s chattering, nodding amiably as he resettled himself underneath the covers of his bed.

He ended up leaning against the wall, a pillow underneath his back, arms crossed as he stared Scott down. His best friend looked like a kicked puppy, eyes downcast and lips trembling.

“I’m sorry, Stiles…I truly wish—“ He was cut off as Stiles lunged forward and embraced him once again.

“We’re going to hug until you stop feeling guilty.” Stiles informed him seriously.

“We’ll be here for the rest of my life,” Scott murmured. He gasped as Stiles’s grip tightened, and then continued. “Actually, I stand corrected. I feel guilt-free. Innocent as a newborn babe.”

Stiles grinned as he sat back. “When will you introduce me to Allison the Anchor?”

The look on Scott’s face confirmed Stiles’s fears—the tenderness he saw there had previously been reserved for only family and baby animals. This thing with Allison was serious.

“When we get to court.” Scott said. At Stiles’s questioning glance, he added. “Yes, _we._ Deaton and I are accompanying you.”

Stiles grinned and grappled Scott into another hug. After he’d disentangled himself, Scott stood and backed toward the doorway.

“I’m glad you’re well, Stiles.” His expression reassured Stiles that his words were heartfelt. “I’ll talk to you later.”

Stiles nodded him out of the door, and then his gaze shifted to Derek, who’d suddenly and inexplicably fallen asleep. Stiles’s knightmaster had slumped into the most uncomfortable position he’d ever seen: Derek’s neck was at an angle normally found on dead bodies and puppets, his arms were flung opposite directions, his ankles were flung wide apart while his knees were braced against each other. He was a jumbled mess of limbs and Stiles knew he’d be sore when he woke.

Did werewolves get sore? Stiles didn’t know. He did know, however, that Derek had earned some rest. He’d probably been up for days, watching for any sign of life in Stiles.

So Stiles stared through the curtained window, cherishing the sliver of the night sky he could see, and waiting for sleep to claim him again.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a gift for you all because of my late update last week. Finally: some smut. B) ALSO. This is my very very first time writing anything more than a hot make out, so please let me know what your thoughts are! I would love to hear feedback on pacing and descriptions and that sort of stuff.

The ride to court was long and exhausting. Stiles found himself complaining more than twice as much as he usually did. His stamina had been affected by his three day jaunt to the heavenly sphere. Though when he was truly feeling the strain of their grueling pace, his complaints dwindled. When he fell silent entirely, Derek declared that they were stopping and not moving forward another step until Stiles was whining with his usual vigor.

Of course the squire was opposed to this form of pacing. Of course the group ignored him. Vespera became his closest confidant—it was into her ears that he insulted the Derek and the others in the most loving, gentle tone he could manage.

Derek pretended he didn’t hear. Scott laughed. Deaton eyed Stiles with his usual expression—somewhere between chilling and cryptic with strong undertones of amusement.

The trip took a week and a half where it should have taken six days. Stiles burned with embarrassment, but played it off as well as he could. When they arrived at the palace, they were greeted by a clamoring mass of armored knights—the Pack. In the chaos, Derek was bodily removed from his horse and passed from man to man; he received from each Pack member a clap on the shoulder, a tight embrace, or even a kiss.

Stiles watched with narrowed eyes. Derek looked uncomfortable. They’d attained some sense of normalcy after the strange, heated moment when Stiles had come back from the heavenly world. Derek was stoic to a fault, as always. Stiles wanted nothing more than to talk through it—he had a dozen questions—but didn’t want to push Derek.

All that being said, he wasn’t happy with the… _familiarity_ of the Pack members.

Doing his best to ignore Derek, Stiles turned to talk to Scott. His friend’s eyes were wide, pupils blown to almost twice their regular size. His horse twitched and pranced nervously; Stiles observed how tightly Scott had clenched the reins.

“Scott?” He asked timidly.

Scott didn’t reply, didn’t acknowledge that Stiles had spoken at all.

“Scott!” Stiles repeated, nudging Vespera close enough that he could touch Scott’s shoulder. Vespera touched noses with Scott’s horse, and the stallion calmed, even though Scott’s grip hadn’t loosened.

“Scott!” Stiles said sharply, jerking his friend’s arm. Scott finally faced Stiles, eyes flashing amber. “What is the matter with you?” Stiles said in as low a voice as he could manage.

“There’s so many…” Scott trailed off, and then suddenly jerked his hands up to his head, clumsily covering his ears. He lurched wildly. Scott’s poor horse, unable to deal with both the noise of the Pack and with his master’s strange behavior, whinnied shrilly and began to buck. Moving with speed that he would regret later, Stiles leaped off of Vespera and jerked the stallion’s reins out of Scott’s fingers.

Scott, without anything to hold onto, half fell and half dismounted from the panicking horse as Stiles tried to wrestle the stallion back onto all four feet. The horse calmed soon after Scott had heaped himself by its hooves. Stiles gasped quietly and grinned, and then suddenly became aware of the pressing silence.

The entire Pack had quieted and were watching Stiles curiously. The squire, keeping a hold on the stallion’s reins and doing his best to ignore his audience (especially Derek’s quiet, intense gaze), leaned down to whisper to Scott.

“Scott?”

Scott met Stiles’s eyes almost immediately; Stiles guessed that Scott was more able to control himself if his sense of smell was the only sense being overpowered. At least the silence was good for that much.

“Thanks,” Scott murmured, taking Stiles’s proffered hand and using it to pull himself up. Stiles clasped him into a hug, clapping his back roughly. As the Pack erupted into cheers, both Scott and his horse tensed. Stiles groaned aloud and cursed the gods for thrusting him back into this bizarre, awful world.

 

Eventually Stiles was able to push through the crowd of knights, blaming his bladder for his urgency. No one bothered to ask exactly why he needed to drag Scott along with him. Stiles had no idea what he would’ve said had he been confronted about it. Safety in numbers, maybe.

They went straight to Stiles’s rooms and collapsed onto the modest bed. As Stiles flung himself onto it, he became aware that it was a _real_ mattress. With _feathers._ And the quilt…soft, warm, expansive. It even looked like something Grandma Stilinski would give him as a Midwinter gift, all patchwork and bright stitching. It was lovely. Stiles wondered if Derek had had any say in what Stiles would find in his room. Most likely not. It was probably the housekeeper’s kindnesses Stiles was seeing.

Scott groaned, rousing Stiles from his speculation.

“What the hell was that, Scott?” Stiles asked, knotting his hands behind his head as he flipped onto his back and stared at the stone ceiling.

“I could hear it all…Every word, every breath, every _heartbeat._ Do you know what a hundred heartbeats together sounds like?” Scott eyed Stiles, who shook his head. “It’s deafening. Add that onto the smells…”

“But what about the people in the palace? Derek once told me that werewo—your kind—er… _you_ could hear for miles. If you tried hard enough.”

Scott’s smile was wry. “You can say it, Stiles. I don’t mind. And the people—they’re further away, hiding behind stone walls and other things. I’m aware of them. I think I could get more specific if I focused. But with the Pack…I was assaulted. And caught off-guard.” Scott made motions with his hands as he tried to give shape to concepts he couldn’t quite use words for.

Stiles nodded vaguely, still a little distracted by the exuberance the Pack had greeted Derek with. They had kissedhim. Lots of men. Had _kissed_ Derek. And Derek hadn’t done anything to stop them. He didn’t look thrilled, but he hadn’t tried to dissuade his soldiers. Did that kind of thing happen often? Was Derek used to men-kisses?

“Thanks, by the way,” Scott said quietly. “I would’ve fallen off of Selhan if you hadn’t grabbed him. What an entrance that would’ve been.” He shook his head slightly, smiling to himself.

“I speak from experience when I say it’s one that is not forgotten for a long while.” Stiles muttered, favoring Scott with a wicked grin. “It took Derek’s servants a week to keep a straight face around me.”

“Speaking of Derek…” Scott trailed off, looking vaguely terrified.

Stiles blinked at Scott, one eyebrow raised. There was a heavy silence in the air as Scott struggled for a second.

“I thought he would’ve killed you by now,” Scott blurted. He clapped a hand over his mouth, shooting a horrified glance at Stiles. The silence returned for a moment, twice as oppressive as before.

And then Stiles laughed. A good, hearty belly laugh that echoed around in the room even after Stiles subdued himself. Scott seemed relieved that he hadn’t taken offense, laughing nervously along. Their friendship was good like that—an easy push and pull. Scott might irritate Stiles and vice versa (more of the vice versa, if Stiles was honest with himself), but they were brothers in the end.

“Frankly, so am I,” Stiles admitted, thinking about the random, violent outbursts Derek occasionally had. He also thought about what he had learned about magic, his suspicions about Peter…Gods, he wished he could share it with Scott. He wished he could unburden himself, or at least lighten the load a little. But there was no need to drag Scott into it. And if he was wrong…That was treason. He’d be exiled. Or imprisoned for life. Or beheaded. Depending on Peter’s mood. And that was the most terrifying of all.

“How? Has it gotten any easier? He seems different,” Scott nattered on while Stiles shrugged noncommittally. That was another thing he couldn’t really share with Scott. That heady moment, Derek’s hot hands on him, the space between their bodies burning with their respective desires…Had that actually happened? Was it some strange fever-dream?

He shuddered, but was spared from answering Scott by a knock on the door. Stiles and Scott met each other’s eyes, each with his own quizzical expression: a cocked eyebrow for Stiles, a wrinkling forehead for Scott. Stiles shrugged after a moment. Probably a summons to the dinner hall or something.

“It’s open!” He called.

Peter stepped in, all swirling robes and gold brocade. Scott and Stiles jumped to their feet, then sank to their knees.

“Your Grace,” They said in unison, heads bent deferentially.

“Up, up, both of you,” Peter muttered, waving a hand. He stalked past the two befuddled boys and threw himself onto the bed. One foot dangled lazily off of its edge as he propped himself up against the headboard. The sight of the regal king lounging on his mattress was as comical as it was terrifying. Stiles bit his lip to keep his face straight.

“Your majesty,” He said carefully. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Peter laughed delightedly. “Your time with my nephew has proven beneficial, I see! How cordial of you, how perfectly polite. That’s truly lovely.” He clapped his hands as he spoke, adding emphasis to his words. “Young Stilinski, you owe the pleasure of my company to a very serious matter. You mustn’t tell anyone of my visit.” His voice dropped and his demeanor immediately grew darker. He straightened up.

Stiles felt his eyes widen. Beside him, Scott grew tense as a coiled spring. They waited for Peter to continue. After eyeing Scott for a moment, he turned to Stiles and spoke.

“Stiles…how can I phrase this?” He paused, looking as if he’d discovered a hair in his food and was trying to think of a way to politely inform his server. “Knights are sworn to protect not only the residents of a realm, but the realm itself, yes?” Eyes bright, he watched Stiles closely.

Stiles nodded slowly.

“As a squire, your responsibilities are somewhat lesser. You owe fealty to the knight you serve, but you also owe a greater, implicit fealty to me, as I am your king.” He paused again, as if waiting to see how Stiles would react. “Am I correct?”

“Of course, Your Grace.” Stiles said, mouth dry. There was no way he knew what Stiles had been thinking, right? Was it possible that he could see Stiles’s thoughts? There was no magic that Stiles knew of…Which was an almost useless qualifier, as Stiles knew next to nothing about magic.

“Stiles…I am going to tell you something that may…” Again, the look of mild distaste. “Hm, I suppose it will set your loyalties at odds.” He suddenly glanced at Scott with sharp eyes, deciding that this was where the conversation became something he should not be present for. Though the dismissal was wordless, Scott recognized it immediately. He bowed deeply and fled from the room. Peter slowly rose to his feet.

Standing alone before the most powerful, most terrifying person in the kingdom, Stiles fought to keep the fear from his face. He was dead. He was so dead. Horribly dead. Deader than Kate. Deader than dead. Panic suffocated him; he forced himself to stand still instead of clutching at his chest.

Peter’s words were now sliding around him, but he couldn’t process them effectively. What was he saying? Stiles squinted, trying to focus. Had he just said Derek?

“—awful, really. It’s a lot to ask, I know—gods, I mean if I had to kill my mentor...I hate to even put you in this position, but only you can get close to him. He seems to have truly bonded with you, and that happens so rarely with Derek. Gods, I thought he was a good boy…I had no idea he was capable of murder.”

Stiles’s gut lurched. _Kill his mentor?_ Did Peter mean that Stiles was to…Oh gods. _Oh gods._

Peter’s expression shifted, becoming sorrowful rather than sympathetic. “Gods, Stiles, I’m sorry. I remember what it’s like to be a squire. It’s hard to imagine your knight master doing any wrong.”

“Murder?” Stiles whispered. Peter nodded gravely. “Who?”

“His sister,” Peter murmured. “Laura.”

 

Stiles’s body reacted to that news in a most undignifying way. He barely made it through the pleasantries and the plans and the promises before Peter finally left and Stiles emptied the contents of his stomach into his new chamberpot. Peter wanted him to kill Derek. He wanted Stiles to _kill_ Derek. With poison. Because Derek murdered Laura.

Derek?

_Murder?_

Stiles’s first response was outright rejection. It was impossible. Peter’s brain had been softened by his play with magic—there was no way that Derek had murdered his sister. And then Stiles began to make connections.

_“My hands are foul with blood,”_ Derek had said. _“If it weren’t for me, Laura would still be alive,”_ Derek had said.

Lycaon, the first werewolf, had killed hundreds in his time while he was lost in bloodlust brought by the full moon. And when his wife had gone missing, he’d gone on a three day rampage, cutting down innocents in swathes.

If Derek was Lycaon, was Kate his wife? Stiles wondered. She had to play a role, if Derek’s emotional reaction to her was anything to go by. They had been betrothed…Maybe she’d broken Derek’s heart somehow. Maybe instead of killing Laura, as Derek had claimed, Kate had just been unfaithful. That didn’t make sense, though. What could Kate do that would throw Derek into a rage powerful enough to make him lose control?

Stiles’s gut tightened unpleasantly as he recalled his own experiences involving Derek losing control. Goosebumps rose on his arms at the memory of Derek’s hands tight on his neck.

It didn’t take much for Derek to lose control, did it?

But if Derek had lost it, _someone_ would have to know. It’s not like the crown prince could get away with killing his sister easily, especially if he had done it in a bloodthirsty rage. So someone helped him cover it up. Peter? Maybe, but why wait until now to bring it up? So Peter hadn’t helped, then.

Stiles paused at that.

If Peter hadn’t been the one to help Derek hide it, if he hadn’t known all along, then how had he found out? What had changed since Stiles had met Derek? Kate’s death, certainly. The bandits in the forest. Scott becoming a werewolf. Anything else? Anything with kingdom-wide significance?

Stiles rubbed at his temples, trying to remember anything— _anything_ —that could possibly be relevant. All he could come up with was citizen unrest over the long drought in the south. But the south was always having droughts—they came and went almost annually.

_Gods all damn_ , Stiles thought sourly, rubbing his temples.

Suddenly there was a strange pressure in the room, like the elevation had suddenly dropped a hundred feet and Stiles’s ears hadn’t popped.

“What?” He said, and his voice sounded strange. Muffled. He snapped up off of his bed, reaching for his dagger.

And then the sensation was gone. A young woman sat at the foot of his bed.

She was beautiful beyond description—her face seemed to change when Stiles looked at it, and it was composed of pieces of different faces. It wasn’t an ugly mishmash of features, though: it was like a beautiful mosaic.

He saw a familiar smirk on her mouth. Derek made that smirk all the time, didn’t he? But her lips were shaped like Lydia’s—the noblewoman he had sat across from at Gentian’s dinner party. Her cheekbones looked like his mother’s. She had eyes of the brightest blue he had ever seen. The most skilled poet couldn’t put their hue to words, no matter how many times he or she spoke of sapphire jewelry or the shimmering sea or the fall sky.

“Stiles,” She said, and her voice was like a choir singing.

“Yes,” He said dumbly, hands falling limply to his sides.

She tossed her dark, curling hair—it reminded him of the hair of a servant girl named Amelia. Her eyes changed, becoming a too-familiar hue. Green and gray and blue rolled together. This time, when she smiled, she smiled the coy smile of a young girl.

“May I ask you a question?” Her gaze was hypnotic, but it was wrong. Derek’s eyes did not belong on her face. She was beautiful, but she didn’t have a face chiseled from marble. Her jaw wasn’t strong enough, nor was it perfectly garnished by stubble. And her teeth—too white, too even. Derek had wide rabbit teeth.

Stiles nodded, though, trying to keep his face straight. She was beautiful, yes. Inhumanly gorgeous, yes. She was not the most beautiful person he had ever seen.

“Do you know who I am?”

Stiles could guess. A goddess. Or maybe an enchantress. A magician trying to seduce him? A witch??

“I think I would dishonor you by trying to guess, my lady,” Stiles bowed deeply and let his polite tone wander to apologetic.

“I shall enlighten you,” She said delightedly. She swung herself off the bed and skipped up to Stiles, pulling up short and curtsying gracefully. Her eyes reverted to that otherworldly blue as she held his gaze.

“I am Iceni.” She paused to watch his reaction, but Stiles kept his face carefully composed. “Daughter of Sucellos the Almighty and Andraste the Eternal Queen.”

She smiled, the corners of her blue-blue eyes wrinkling. “I’m here to help you.”

Stiles blinked. That was certainly unexpected. He’d never felt so alone as he had in these past few weeks. Not even after his mother’s death.

“Why?” He asked, not impolitely. He tried to keep his wits about him, but he was overwhelmed by all that he’d been through today. First Scott’s distress, then Peter’s revelations, and now _another bloody immortal_ interjecting herself into his life.

“Why? Why not?” Iceni shrugged, twisting a lock of hair in her fingers. It was now bright, fiery red—red that Stiles remembered seeing only once in his life. She had been a tavern whore. She had also carried herself more elegantly than many of the refined noblewomen Stiles spent his time rubbing shoulders with.

Hardly an answer, at any rate. When she glanced up to see Stiles’s reproachful look, her face darkened. “Do not presume to know my intentions. You are mortal, and I am a divine being. You are a soap bubble in my bathtub. I may admire you for a moment, but your existence is the blink of an eye to me.”

Her whole appearance sharpened, face growing more angular and eyes darkening to a chilling maroon; the whites of her eyes became black as onyx. Her hair elongated and blackened as well, spreading out wildly, floating as if she was submerged in water.

Stiles shrank away from her fearsome figure. Like a butterfly flapping its wings, she changed again into a girl barely out of childhood—her hair still floated, but now it was a light brown cloud of frizz. Her eyes were huge, the color of honey rum, and she had a spattering of moles across her round cheeks.

She could be his sister.

Stiles stayed where he was, deferentially lowering himself down to one knee. She was right, after all. He was merely mortal, and she was the daughter of the two most powerful gods in the heavenly sphere.

“My lady, I beg your pardon,” Stiles said, eyes on the floor. Her feet were at the corner of his vision, bare, dirty, and hovering maybe an inch over the dark wood. “You are right of course. I have no excuse for my actions, other than the fact that I am only human and I do harm more often than good.”

Gentle fingers touched his chin, drawing his gaze up. Stiles looked into Iceni’s face—a face so like his—and tentatively returned the smile he saw there.

“My darling, that is precisely why I am here. You are human. You also have great significance in the heavenly sphere. Our worlds are closely entwined. Those in power here bring power to their patrons in the Eternal Kingdom. Under Peter’s reign, my mother and father’s power has waned. His patron is Midir the Black. Midir has waged war with my parents, and his forces gain ground every moment. Of course, time flows differently in our world. This battle is centuries-old for you.”

“How is that possible? Peter hasn’t been in power that long,” Stiles pointed out.

Iceni eyed him disapprovingly. “Time flows differently. I have already said this. I thought you were clever. Perhaps I was mistaken in offering my support.”

Stiles shook his head. “My apologies, my lady. Is it ‘my lady?’ Or do you prefer another title?” He shook his head again, more slightly. “I have had a confusing day. My head is spinning.”

Iceni eyed him. “There is magic on you, it is no wonder your mind is clouded. ‘My lady’ is best for me, though I would advise you to address other divine beings by their names—epithets and all.”

“Best for you?” Stiles asked inquisitively, wondering why it was different for her.

“Since I am your patron, you are entitled to a certain level of informality.” She smiled that eye-crinkling smile. Her eyes were Derek’s eyes again, throwing Stiles further off-balance than he already was. “I shall remove this spell. You may call on me in times of need, but do not do so frivolously. If I come for you, do _not_ disrespect me by giving me anything less than your utmost attention.” She frowned severely, the expression out of place on her youthful face.

Stiles nodded, mind still trying to wrap itself around the word _patron._

Iceni leaned forward, eyes closing. She blew gently on Stiles, then kissed his forehead and disappeared by the time he registered what she had done. His mind felt clearer, less muddled.

He sat himself on his bed, resolving to think for a while.

Gods and glory, he’d had enough of this day.

 

He woke later to the sound of stone on stone. It was very faint, but night had fallen and it was otherwise silent. Stiles lurched off of the bed and scrabbled around for something, anything, to defend himself with. He came up with the lead-core baton Melissa had given him. The feel of it, firm and heavy in his hands, brought waves of nostalgia.

He pinpointed the noise, realizing it came from the corner of his room; one panel of the stone wall was rotating ever so slowly, exposing a head of thick, dark hair and a faintly lit passageway. Stiles stifled a gasp and stepped backward, slouching low into a guarded stance. Intruder or not, that hair looked vaguely familiar. He wasn’t about to jump a potential friend without probable cause.

A moment later, the door—because that was what it really was, not part of the wall—opened enough that the man could slip through. Coughing lightly, he brushed himself off and met Stiles’s gaze with a small smile. Derek.

“A bit dusty in there,” He said, as if commenting on the weather.

Stiles, still a little lethargic, could only nod. But he shook himself out of his stupor and poured a cup of water from the pitcher on the nightstand.

After Derek took the water and drank deeply, Stiles seated himself on his cot and waited. His usual stream of chatter had dried up in the wake of recent events. He was also _slightly_ offended that Derek hadn’t thought to come for Stiles until now. _Also_ the secret passageway was slightly unnerving. Stiles wished Derek had shut the door, but it gaped open, the torchlight flickering unnervingly.

Derek seated himself beside Stiles, idly turning the empty clay cup over and over in his hands.

“Did you sleep well?” He asked, finally.

Stiles started. “I suppose so. I don’t remember falling asleep, really. I meant to sit and think, but I drifted off. No nightmares, so I suppose I’ve been granted a boon of some sort.”

Derek nodded, eyes hooded. Stiles again wondered what Derek dreamed about—the good and the bad.

“What is the…” Stiles trailed off, gesturing lamely at the stone passageway instead of finishing his sentence.

“A secret passageway. The castle is full of them. When the first king built this castle, he intended them to be used by servants, to move quickly and quietly without interfering with the royal atmosphere.” Derek added air-quotes around the word “royal.”

Stiles nodded slowly, then asked. “And why use that door to visit?”

Derek offered a wry smile. “I came earlier. I knocked, but you didn’t answer. I thought maybe you’d gone for supper with Scott, but later I saw him with Lady Allison, and he didn’t know where you were. So I broke in and you were sprawled on your bed, sleeping peacefully as a babe. I knew this journey wasn’t easy for you; I thought you deserved your rest. I locked the door behind me to make sure you were safe, but that was hours ago and I wanted to check on you again. And this time I remembered the passageway, so I didn’t have to go through the trouble of breaking in again.”

Stiles quirked a brow. Derek was rambling. But he felt great satisfaction at the thought of Derek worrying about him, despite his misgivings about— “Wait, you broke in?”

Derek shrugged. “It wasn’t hard.”

Stiles scowled darkly. “How?”

“I picked your lock,” Derek said, as if it was obvious. His look of slight puzzlement added insult to injury.

“What!” Stiles exclaimed, slightly aware that his tone was impudent, bordering on insolent, but not really in the mood to care.

“I can teach you,” Derek offered. He looked vaguely uncomfortable now, as if he knew Stiles was overreacting, but didn’t know how exactly he should tell Stiles.

“I know how to pick a lock,” Stiles sniffed. “I just didn’t think it was something nobility stooped to. Or that you would be so blasé about breaking into my quarters.”

Derek huffed. “Gods, Stiles, is that all? You looked like you had just seen me take off my boot and eat it.”

Now it was Stiles’s turn to shrug. “I’m not really known for reasonable reactions and social elegance.”

Derek smirked. “You really aren’t.”

“You’re one to talk,” Stiles replied, too much bitterness in his tone. “I say one wrong thing and I’m thrown up against the nearest upright surface and threatened heartily. Sometimes repeatedly.”

Derek looked down. “I know. I’m sorry.” Stiles didn’t know how to respond beyond mindless placations that he didn’t mean, but Derek hadn’t finished yet. He jumped to his feet and paced as he blurted, “I don’t know what’s wrong with me, Stiles. I keep doing stupid things. Violent things. I’m just so _angry_ all the time. I wasn’t always like this. Even after Laura…” He trailed off, looking sick. Stiles’s gut contracted in misery and sympathy. “I keep blacking out. Sometimes I find myself talking to someone without remembering how the conversation started. Other times I start doing something and wake up doing something else, hours later. I don’t know what’s happening.” His breath came faster, heavier, bordering on sobs. “I’m scared, Stiles, I’m scared that I’m losing control of my wolf. I don’t—“ His voice broke and it felt like Stiles’s stomach had dropped out through the soles of his feet. “—I don’t want to be a killer. I don’t want you to be afraid of me.”

With this he dropped to his knees in front of Stiles, who remained seated on the edge of his bed. Stiles was at war with himself. Either Derek was truly breaking down in front of him, telling the truth about his strange outbursts, which would indicate Peter’s meddling; or Derek had just put on the most masterful display of emotional manipulation Stiles had ever seen, having caught on to Peter’s suspicions, and was now trying to win Stiles over.

The silence stretched uncomfortably long: each passing second had the weight of a ton of bricks, bearing down on squire and knight. Derek looked up to meet Stiles’s eyes, hopeless and forlorn.

That was what broke Stiles’s indecision, seeing Derek lit by the moon and stars, tears shimmering in his eyes. He _knew_ Derek hadn’t murdered his sister. This man was not capable of such a horror—this man wanted love and acceptance, just like any other man. He wouldn’t harm his family, especially his orphan sister.

So Stiles threw his misgivings to the wind, slowly sliding off the bed and half onto Derek’s lap. He paused there, as if unsure of his welcome. Derek was still, eyes wide and silvery in the half-light. For a moment, Stiles was overcome by nostalgia, thinking back to that night when Derek had come to Stiles’s quarters shirtless and disheveled, ordering him to go to sleep.

Deciding it was too much of a half-step to stop what he’d started, Stiles shifted more of himself onto Derek, wrapping his legs around Derek’s waist.

There he did stop, holding Derek at arm’s length. Derek’s face was almost too open, too vulnerable for Stiles to bear after all of the impassivity and cryptic half-truths of the political mess he’d been thrown into.

“I’m not afraid of you,” Stiles said, and leaned forward to fit his lips against Derek’s.

It was everything he wanted and nothing he expected. Derek’s lips were gentle and hesitant, but his hands pulled Stiles tight against his body. They slipped underneath his shirt, tracing the contours of his back and shoulders, lingering on the raised skin of his moles.

Stiles was about as inexperienced as boys can come in terms of kisses. But he followed Derek’s lead, for the most part. First his hands hovered near Derek’s head, clasping the back of his neck, twining through his thick hair. His fingers stroked Derek’s stubble gently even as it burned the skin of his mouth. Then he became more bold: his hands drifting along Derek’s sides, skimming softly against his muscled back, worming their way between Stiles and Derek to explore the ridges of Derek’s abs.

It was not long before Derek deepened the kiss, insistent where he was hesitant before. He shifted back slowly, taking Stiles with him, until his back hit the stone floor. Then he rolled over to pin Stiles underneath him. Stiles found Derek’s weight on him to be unexpectedly pleasant, even more so when Derek broke their kiss for a moment to strip their shirts off.

The floor was colder than he’d thought, but Derek was hot above him and his ministrations were warming Stiles up as well.

“Derek—“ Stiles gasped as Derek kissed an impossibly long trail from the corner of Stiles’s mouth, to the shell of his ear, down to his collarbone, and following along the trail of dark hair on Stiles’s abdomen. Stiles’s hands found Derek’s hair, wrapped themselves in the inky thickness of it.

“Mmm?” Derek hummed pleasantly against Stiles’s skin. His tongue flickered briefly against Stiles’s naval and Stiles couldn’t really help the gasp that escaped him. His grip tightened on Derek’s hair, eliciting a surprised, pleased rumble from the back of Derek’s throat.

“I don’t—“ His breath hitched again as Derek nipped lightly at the skin just above the waistband of his trousers. Another rumble echoed from deep in Derek’s chest, making Stiles shudder. “Derek, wait, please.”

Immediately Derek sat back, brow crinkling nervously. “Shit, Stiles, I’m sorry, I didn’t—“

“No, no, no,” Stiles backpedaled. “Don’t be sorry, gods, don’t ever be sorry for that,” He paused, mouth working as he tried to figure out a way to phrase his bad news. “Derek, I have to tell you something. I was going to earlier but then I got distracted—“ He laughed nervously. “Well, _you know_ , but it really can’t wait, and—“

Derek, now looking amused and relieved, interrupted. “Stiles, just spit it out.”

“Peter told me you killed Laura and he wants me to help him kill you.” He couldn’t get it all out and do it eloquently, so he erred on the side of brashness. An impossibly fast succession of emotion overtook Derek’s face: shock, bewilderment, bemusement. Then nothing. His features were suddenly as blank as a sheet.

“When,” Derek enunciated very clearly; Stiles almost flinched at the crispness of his tone. “Did this happen?”

“Today,” Stiles said, “But listen, I think I know—“

“I can’t believe this,” Derek growled. His eyes darkened and then suddenly flared crimson. He pushed himself away from Stiles as if he was disgusted by him. He snapped his gaze around the room, somehow still angry even as he searched for something. With sharp, angry motions, he found his shirt and pulled it on, tucking it into his pants.

Bewildered and hurt, Stiles put on his own shirt and rose to his feet. Derek was starting to stalk out the door, but Stiles stepped in front of him.

“Derek, what—“

Derek backhanded him, sending Stiles reeling against his washbasin. The wide bowl clattered to the floor, broken clay and water flying everywhere as Stiles lost his footing.

Almost simmering with rage, Stiles immediately righted himself and threw himself in front of the door, blocking Derek’s exit again. His jaw felt like it was about to fall off, but he bulled through the pain.

“What the _bloody hell_ has come over you?” He shouted, putting as much ire into his exclamation as he could muster. “This is terrifying, Derek! I’m not afraid of you, but gods help me when you fly off your handle like this! I don’t even know what I said to set you off, but if you could use your words instead of fucking physical violence, maybe we could avoid this kind of thing.”

Derek bared his teeth at Stiles. “If you don’t get out of my way, the gods themselves will not be able to help you.”

Stiles blanched, but kept his feet securely planted on the ground. Enough was enough.

As he watched, Derek’s features morphed. His forehead became more prominent, his nose grew wider. The stubble on his face became long tufts of fur. His teeth elongated and when he unfisted his hands, his nails had become dark claws. He loomed menacingly, as tall as Stiles but somehow taking up more space than he should. Through it all, his bloody red eyes never wavered.

“Move,” Derek said thickly, having to spit the word around his new set of teeth.

“Derek, I need you to listen to me,” Stiles was quiet, but firm. It took everything he had to move his jaw enough that his words weren’t slurred. “This isn’t you. You are stronger than this. It doesn’t have to be violence. Please. Just talk to me.”

For a moment, Stiles thought he saw something. Some spark in Derek’s eye, some intelligence fighting against another intelligence. But then it was gone, and Derek ruthlessly shoved Stiles down and kicked his legs out from under him when he tried to stand back up.

“The next time you disobey me,” He spat, one boot on Stiles’s ribs, holding him down, “I will break your limbs like twigs. I will lay you down, I will tear open your rib cage, and I will eat your organs one by one. I will name them for you. And I will hold your heart in my wet fingers, drinking your darkest blood, as I watch the life fade from your eyes.”

With that, he swept out of Stiles’s room, door slamming behind him.

Bloody and wet, laying on the floor, Stiles cursed Peter in the filthiest way he knew how.

 

The next day, Stiles ignored every summons he got. Peter and Scott tried to contact him, but Stiles made it sound like he was being violently ill convincingly enough to deter the errand boys. Derek sent endless notes and runners and eventually showed up at his door, knocking insistently. Then calling to him from the hallway. First politely, then pleadingly, then threateningly. When he finally fell silent, Stiles thanked the gods.

Then he heard a familiar stone-on-stone grinding noise. Cursing quietly, he ducked out the window. The fall was enough to break his legs if he landed wrong, but he’d learned to bend his knees and roll immediately to absorb the shock. His aching body was not as agile as it could be, though.

He walked along the side of the palace, staying under the eaves so Derek wouldn’t be able to see him. The courtyard was small, but luckily there was an exit on the side under the overhang.

From there, Stiles wasn’t really sure what to do. He knew the whole castle must be gossiping about his falling out with Derek—there’s no way it had gone unnoticed. Walking around with what was sure to be a spectacular bruise (going by the way his face felt, at least) wasn’t going to help the situation at all.

He wanted to find a healer, mostly. Just someone who could give him a little something for the pain. The official palace hospital was full of gossiping servants, though. So Stiles decided on a more unconventional healing method. He went to the stables.

His original plan was to visit the main palace stables, as visiting the Hale stables seemed to be asking for trouble. However, he happened to see some of Peter’s entourage exiting the main stables as he approached, so he veered off toward the Hale wing. Once inside, surrounded by the familiar smell of horses and hay, he relaxed slightly.

Knowing that his best bet to find the head hostler was to simply wander the aisles, he systematically strode down corridor after corridor. Some of the horses were familiar: he had worked with many of them as a page. Many more were simply friendly, social animals. They whickered at him as he wandered by.

When he found Gailavira’s stall, he stopped and offered his flat, empty palm to her. Like a queen, she elegantly lowered her muzzle to his fingers and brushed his hands with her velveteen lips. He rubbed her nose fondly, but didn’t want to push his luck.

To his surprise, Vespera’s stall had been moved to be next to Gail’s. He greeted his mare like an old friend, throwing his arms around her neck and bringing her close. He quietly cried out in pain as she snuffled a little too hard against his aching jaw. She pulled back immediately, as if understanding what she had done, and hung her head. Stiles crooned in her ear while he tentatively brushed his knuckles against his jaw.

It was a bad injury, probably one of the worst he’d ever had. He was used to the bumps and bruises his insolence and his station earned him, but something felt wrong deep inside the bone. His whole head felt lopsided, misshapen, like Derek’s backhand had staved in half of his face.

“That’s quite the bruise, young master,” Said a warm voice from behind him. Stiles turned to see the head hostler striding toward him. A small man with long, straw-blond hair and a disarming way of moving, he was renowned across the kingdom for his skill with animals in general, and horses specifically. His name was Ahern—rumor had it that he was actually a demi-god, son of a nature goddess who spoke the long-dead language of nymphs. In that language, Ahern meant “lord of horses.”

He walked awkwardly, like a man on puppet strings. But Stiles had seen him leap onto a bucking horse and calm it within moments. It was like he could speak to them. With his newfound knowledge of magic, Stiles suspected there may have been some magical influence on the hostler’s skills. However, given the fledgling state of his studies, Stiles could also just be paranoid.

“So it is,” Stiles replied, clasping Ahern’s forearm.

“My little birds tell me you’ve quite the talent for angering your masters. My little birds also tell me there was something of an altercation between you and the duke last night.” The hostler said, a little smile playing on the edges of his lips.

“You know I can’t respond to that,” Stiles chastised. It was bad manners to talk about one’s master, doubly so if that master was royalty.

“You can’t blame a man for trying,” The hostler laughed. “What can I do for you? I assume you’re looking for me, the way you’ve been skulking about.”

Stiles grinned sheepishly, though his smile was uneven. “I was wondering if you could give me something for my face. I can’t go to the palace healer—they’ll talk. Right now they have only whispers to spread. But if I go get treated for an injury, they’ll have more than rumor to feed the gossip mill.”

Ahern nodded. “If you don’t mind waiting for a bit, I’ll find some of the painkillers we give the horses. All natural medicine, don’t you worry.” He winked.

Stiles nodded and allowed himself to be led to a nearby hayloft. The hostler promised to return soon, and was assertive about Stiles staying in the loft, lest he be noticed.

Stiles did stay in the loft. He passed the time by braiding long pieces of hay. Eventually he made himself a bed of hay and took a nap. He woke to the sound of someone thumping up the ladder.

“Ahern?” He kept his voice hushed.

The steps paused, then continued. Suddenly worried about being discovered, Stiles ducked behind the largest pile of hay he could find. What if it was Derek? Or one of Peter’s little henchmen? Or Peter himself?

It turned out to be none of the above.

Stiles recognized the waves of golden hair before he could recall a name. He was so surprised, he stepped backward through one of the holes used to drop hay into the horses’ feed boxes.

Isaac heard Stiles sputter and curse and leapt into action, seizing his wrist before he could break an ankle. Stiles groaned at the sight of him, and at the way his body protested his incaution.

“That’s not usually the response I get,” Isaac said a little haughtily.

“My apologies,” Stiles said sarcastically. He folded his arms and sat back against the wall, glaring.

“Ahern sent me,” Isaac said after an awkward silence. “But you should know, Derek also told me to notify him if I saw you here.”

Stiles groaned again, louder.

“Shut up,” Isaac hissed, looking behind him. “I have to tell him, but I can at least give you a headstart. Also Ahern gave me this for you,” He brandished a leather bag. “I don’t know what it is—“ He cut Stiles off as soon as the squire opened his mouth, “—and I don’t want to. I’m just here to pass it on. Ahern has to attend to some lordling whose horse misstepped and broke his leg.” Isaac tossed his head in exasperation. “Like it’s the horse’s fault that the trail was uneven.”

Stiles smiled tentatively. It was clear Isaac was headed down the same path as Ahern, who was also renowned for his low tolerance of animal-related idiocy—especially from nobles.

Isaac met his gaze and smiled back—it was a warm smile, and it reminded Stiles of the way his mom used to smile at him when he was particularly sweet to her. “Stiles, you seem like the good sort—especially for a noble. You take good care of Vespera. And Derek is quite fond of you, as well. Derek…” Isaac sighed. “Derek is interesting. He puts on the airs of a noble, but he’s the most down to earth royalty I’ve ever met, when you really get to know him.”

Stiles was quiet, eyes on his knotted hands. “He is different.”

Isaac was silent for long enough that Stiles looked back up at him. “I don’t know what there is between you two,” Isaac said cautiously. Stiles was stiff, but still. “But he is fragile. He pretends not to be, but he is a gentle soul. That is part of what makes him bad at being royalty. A good king is not necessarily a good man, and vice versa. Derek is a good man, but he was not made for ruling.”

Stiles was quiet, eyes on the hay-strewn floor. Isaac stopped, looking surprised at himself. “I assume too much, forgive me.”

Stiles was also surprised, but for a different reason. He’d finally placed what had been needling him about Isaac. “Your accent. Where are you from? You don’t speak like a commoner.”

A deeply wry smile. “I’m from far north. From the Luari Isles. I was nobility too, once. But that is another life. Here I am merely Isaac the stablehand: second of Ahern, friend of Duke Derek and advisor of Stiles Stilinski, the spark.”

For a moment, Isaac’s eyes flashed bright topaz—the same color that Scott’s had been yesterday—before returning to Isaac’s natural clear, bright blue.

He nodded formally to Stiles, then skipped lightly down the ladder’s rungs, leaving the squire dumbfounded, yet again.

Who _was_ Isaac? Stiles decided to save that mystery for another time.

Before leaving the stable, Stiles helped himself to a travelling cloak from the tack room. If he pulled the hood down low and clasped the front close to himself, he could pass for a priest of the god Midir—the black god of death. Peter’s patron god, a small voice reminded him.

Midir was not kind to those who donned the robes of his priests for folly, but Stiles was confident that borrowing them for ten minutes while he made his way to his room was not enough for a smiting. That being said, as soon as the door shut behind him, he threw off the cloak like it was covered in acid. He thumbed the pendant Scott had gotten him so long ago, taking comfort in its familiar shape and weight, as he prayed for forgiveness from Midir.

After taking the horse medicine, which tasted like mint and stumpwater, Stiles threw himself onto his bed with a heavy sigh, starting as he felt paper crackle beneath him. A note. He recognized the strong, slanting handwriting without even looking at the signature.

“ _Stiles—_

_Peter has requested a formal audience. It is not optional. Report to my chambers by the fourth bell._

_Derek“_

As if struck by the hand of fate, the bells began tolling. Stiles counted, slowly growing more and more panicked. One…two…three…and four. There it was. He cursed and yanked off his hay-covered clothes, hopping around on one foot as he struggled to get his trousers off and find more formal attire at the same time.

Finally, finally, he got himself clothed. There was really nothing to be done about his face; he couldn’t even splash it with cool water, because his basin hadn’t been replaced yet. He ran his hands through his hair a few times, trying to tame it, before he gave up. He hadn’t cut it since before becoming Derek’s squire. It was longish and unruly now.

Hurrying out his door, Stiles was pleasantly surprised to remember that Derek’s chambers were now next to his own. He laughed slightly and hastened to Derek’s door, only a few steps away. Almost before he’d finished knocking, Derek yanked open the door and pulled Stiles in roughly. Even though Stiles was only a few seconds late, Derek looked positively murderous.

“Where have you even—“ He began, spitting words through his teeth, then hesitated. “Shit, Stiles, what happened to your face?”

One cool finger touched the edge of Stiles’s jaw, not even putting enough pressure on his bruise to register. “Shit,” Derek breathed, eyes widening. “Shit, I did this. I remember—“ He suddenly groaned, clutching at his head.

“Derek?” Stiles asked worriedly. Then he folded his arms and steeled his face, remembering he was angry at Derek.

“Never mind,” Derek muttered, shaking his head. The flip in his demeanor was tangible. “Come on, Peter’s waiting.”

Stiles felt his lips press into a thin line. Derek wasn’t going to acknowledge that anything out of the ordinary had happened? Fine.

He knew deep down that Peter had been controlling Derek, or at least influencing him magically. The fact that Derek hardly seemed to care, though, was another matter entirely. See if Stiles said anything the next time Derek’s face was maimed.

Who was he kidding? He’d bemoan the tarnishment that had befallen the gift from the gods that was Derek’s face. He’d write countless laments and pray to Iceni and all the others to restore what had been stolen from the world.

Imagining ideas for these sorrowful poems kept him from growing too nervous as they approached the throne room.

What was this pleasant, loose feeling coming over him? It must be the painkillers. Stiles smiled, really smiled, and rejoiced when his face didn’t feel off-balance.

His mind drifted, and he thought about the last time he’d visited these grand halls—the squire ceremony. How long ago that had seemed, despite the fact that only two seasons had passed since then.

How long had it been since he’d seen Finstock? For four years, the marquis’s wide green eyes and goading taunts had kept him motivated from day to day. And now Stiles could hardly remember when he saw him last. Not since the squire ceremony, he thought. Everything had happened so fast.

He chanced a glance at Derek, who moved silently and fluidly beside him. Dark, brooding Derek, whose laughter was like the sun breaking free from the clouds. How quickly Stiles had fallen for him. He tried to pinpoint the moment where their relationship had taken a romantic turn, but he failed. Derek had always been different to Stiles, even when he’d been unapproachably distant.

Before he could further ponder the inner workings of the squire-mentor relationship, Derek slowed and stopped before a huge pair of doors. Two guards, spears crossed in a wide X before the entry, turned and saluted to Derek. They knocked the butts of their spears against the ground once, and a servant opened the door inward, welcoming the duke and his squire into the throne room.

Peter sat atop his throne of smoky black rock, a silver circlet resting on his brow. Coupled with his silver scepter, it was actually only an informal reminder of his power—the true king’s crown was kept in a sacred chest and brought out only for coronations and death rites.

Derek and Stiles approached the platform the throne rested on, both stopping before the first step. Stiles dropped to one knee while Derek bowed formally.

“My liege,” They said in unison.

“Rise,” Peter responded.

Together, squire and knight straightened. As he did so, Stiles found his eyes drawn to Peter’s glimmering jewelry. Rings adorned every finger, some inset with precious stones. His ears were pierced with silver hoops, and around his neck lay thick chains of silver. How much money was Peter wearing?

His subjects starved while Peter literally dripped in precious jewels. Stiles felt like he _should_ feel sick and angry, but he could only muster a vague sort of annoyance. What had Ahern given him?

“Do you know why you’re here?” Peter asked. It was unclear who he was addressing.

Stiles looked at Derek, whose gaze did not move from the floor. They both remained silent.

“You are going to prison,” Peter said grimly.

Stiles panicked, thinking Peter meant Derek, thinking that he’d somehow inadvertently caused Derek’s incarceration. He slouched into a low, guarded position. Derek remained still and quiet.

But when the guards from the entry swept into the room, it was Stiles’s arms they seized and forced behind his back. He flailed reflexively, then fell still as they began to drag him away. Derek was not touched.

“What?” Stiles gaped, mouth open and eyes darting. He addressed Peter, but hoped Derek had something to say.

Still, Derek stood like some cold stone sentinel, not a flicker of emotion anywhere on his body. Not even a finger twitched in Stiles’s defense.

“Squire Stilinski, you have been charged with treason for conspiring against your country and your king. You will await sentencing in the castle dungeon. May the gods be with you,” Peter intoned formally by way of reply. With that, Stiles was dragged out the doors, roughly shoved down a few flights of stairs and into the palace dungeon.

 

It was dark, it was dingy, and it smelled like several people or animals had died where Stiles was standing. His cell was one of the ones used to incarcerate the most serious of criminals. His arms were shackled in a spread-eagle position, his ankles chained to heavy weights. The cell was outfitted with two doors—one inner door of thick iron bars, and an outer one of solid stone with a single peephole.

For all this, it wasn’t that terrible. They fed him (every so often), and Iceni visited about half as often to keep him company. His arms got sore fairly quickly, but Iceni’s visits always left him physically relieved. She even offered to unshackle him, but they were both aware that if he was found unshackled, it would be worse for him.

So Stiles bided his time. He rattled his chains every now and then, testing. Sometimes he rattled his chains to hear some noise other than his thoughts.

He began to talk to himself—he told old stories and myths, making up what he couldn’t remember. He talked about Scott, about Derek, about his father. He talked _to_ them, too. He sang songs: everything from drinking songs to ancient ballads to hummed lullabies. When Iceni came and found him humming raggedly, she bade him to rest his voice and offered a few songs of her own.

She kept the form of the small child that might have been Stiles’s sister, but her voice was strong and bell-like. Lower than he expected, and absolutely, gut-wrenchingly beautiful. Perhaps she was simply a good singer, or perhaps it was part of being a goddess, but every melody she sang had emotion in it. It drew Stiles in and manipulated his own feelings until he felt the sadness of the music, or the joy, or the bone-deep yearning.

He was very quickly reduced to tears.

They told each other stories. Iceni shared the history of the Eternal Kingdom, which Stiles found very confusing. He told Iceni what priests thought had happened in the Eternal Kingdom, including the story of creation. Iceni laughed and laughed, telling Stiles that the stories had all been twisted. But some truth remained in them. Sucellos and Andraste _were_ the Great Ones, and Sucellos had created the world, while Andraste created mankind. But much of the stories were embellished with nonsense. Iceni told the story of her own birth—how it had corresponded with the end of Arcadia’s great Civil War. Stiles learned that Iceni was technically the caretaker of mortals, though she was prevented from interfering in their lives too much.

“Each mortal faces a great crossroads at some time in their life,” She told Stiles. “Some face the great crossroads more than once. I can only influence him or her. And I can only do so very gently, because that is the way of the world.” When Stiles inquired further about “the way of the world,” Iceni’s only response was laughter and chiding.

While the passage of time was hard to mark, Stiles guessed he had been held in the dungeons for a little over two weeks when a masked guard entered.

“How can you see through that?” Stiles asked cheerfully, as the guard began the arduous process of locking one door and unlocking the next (each one had several locks). “It’s dark enough in here without anything over your eyes.”

The guard was silent, unamused. He locked the inner door behind himself and then moved to unshackle Stiles. When Stiles’s arms were released, he slumped heavily forward, crying out as his disused muscles protested the rough treatment.

The guard dispassionately removed the chains from his ankles and dragged Stiles to his feet. Stiles could only stay upright by leaning heavily on the guard, whose response was a quiet, disgusted grunt. However, the man must have had some kindness in him, because he did not shake Stiles off.

He did bind Stiles’s wrists together, though, and hobbled his ankles. Stiles almost laughed. He wasn’t physically capable of escaping his guard, let alone the castle, even without the ties. The journey back through the dungeons was long and loud. Most of the other prisoners had a clear view of the hallway, especially the petty criminals.

“Oi! He’s fresh meat! Barely been down here a fortnight!” One complained.

“When do I get to leave? Me mum is worried sick!” Taunted another rough voice.

“HELP! THEY’RE COMING FOR ME! HELP ME!” The anguished screams came from a man who looked like a pile of rags. His cellmate cowered in the farthest corner he could.

Eventually they reached the exit. It lead directly into a courtyard on the castle’s ground floor, very near the throne room. In a few moments, they had reached a familiar set of grand doors, though Stiles’s eyes were watering too much for him to see very clearly.

The single dungeon guard who had brought him from below was joined by a pair of palace guards. All were stonily silent as they led Stiles into the throne room.

Peter sat in his usual place, settled so casually that it could almost be described as lounging. He waggled a flashy hand at Stiles, who squinted even more against the glare of the king’s various rings. Derek was stationed by his right hand, looking elegant in silver and navy chainmail. His face was tight, stoic but pained. Also on the raised dais were the members of the King’s Council, arranged in a tight semi-circle.

A few rows of wooden pews had been set up—these were filled with various nobles, and a few odd nonnobles that Stiles recognized. Isaac and Ahern sat near the back, offering terse little smiles when Stiles met their eyes. A servant he’d been particularly good friends with. Derek’s chief of staff from the manor. He met eyes with Scott, who looked to be physically ill. Deaton sat on Scott’s left, and a beautiful dark-haired woman sat on his right. Lady Allison? On Peter’s left and below the throne’s platform sat a royal scribe, who was busily readying the quills and ink he would soon use.

And beside him…stood Stiles’s father.

The Sheriff. The Provost Guard himself. He spent most of his time at the castle, advising this and that council, commanding the palace guard, organizing watches, etc. Stiles’s childhood was full of long periods of time without his father, punctuated by the bright swatches of happiness when he came home to the Stilinski manor. As Stiles entered page training, he was physically closer to his father, but saw even less of him.

The Provost had many duties, least of which included coordinating all departments of the king’s armed forces. Even the likes of Derek answered to him. As such, the Sheriff was well-known around the kingdom. His name was a synonym for the iron law. His steely demeanor had earned him the nickname Iron Ass, at least from those who wished to refer to him in a derogatory way. Most of the rest of the kingdom referred to him as the Sheriff, setting him apart the Provost Guards he succeeded.

Stiles wasn’t sure if it was regular protocol for the Provost Guard to be present at trials for treason. While he couldn’t help feeling happy to see his dad, he was also mortified at the circumstances. He hoped his father knew the accusations were false.

Stiles tried to meet the Sheriff’s eye, but his gaze fluidly slid away from Stiles.

Peter tapped his scepter on the arms of his chair, calling everyone’s attention to him.

“Squire Stilinski,” He said formally, “You have been charged with treason against your king and your country. Now begins your trial.”

 

The trial was long and dull. Despite its importance, Stiles had to work to keep himself from dozing off. Each of the people in the pews offered their testimony. Some—Isaac and Ahern—were uncomfortable and fumbling, though earnest. Others—some of the nobles that Stiles had never spoken to—vouched for his trustworthiness and service to the realm. Some accused him of conspiring with foreign spies to assassinate the king.

It really was very dull.

Stiles perked up as Scott gave his testimony; it was impassioned and eloquent, and Scott’s use of flowery language was surprisingly adept. Stiles shot him a surprised, thankful glance as he took a seat. Scott returned his gaze with a small smile.

Derek did not give a testimony, though Peter called his name.

“I choose not to testify,” He said through gritted teeth. The Council murmured amongst themselves.

“You’re his mentor, nephew,” Peter chided. “You know him best of all. Your testimony could save him.”

“I choose not to testify,” Derek repeated.

Peter shrugged, nodding to himself, and carried on with the trial. He did not call on the Sheriff, who continued to evade Stiles’s efforts at making eye contact.

Four hours after the trial’s beginning, Peter called for a recess. Stiles was escorted to a nearby courtyard and shackled to a pillar. The dungeon guard removed his helmet, running tanned fingers through short salt-and-pepper hair.

His blue eyes were intent on Stiles. “Did you do it?”

“Ah, pardon?” Stiles asked.

“Did you do it?” He repeated, piercing (and oddly familiar) gaze still on Stiles.

“Honestly, I’m not really sure what I’m being accused of,” Stiles admitted. “Treason, I know, but what, allegedly, did I do?”

The man rolled his eyes, rubbing his stubble as he did so. “You _allegedly_ falsely accused Duke Derek of conspiring to assassinate the king in order to cover your own _alleged_ tracks. It is _alleged_ that you offered to poison the king for the queen of Laconia in exchange for vast amounts of land and wealth.”

“I wish that was true,” Stiles replied. “I’d be a damn sight better off than I am now.”

He snorted. “So you’re innocent?”

“I disobeyed the king. That is the extent of my criminal activity,” Stiles replied, eyes downcast.

“What happened?” The guard asked.

Stiles laughed bitterly. “It’s a long story.”

“The trial resumes tomorrow. Until then, you’re supposed to be in the dungeon. I thought you’d appreciate the fresh air. But if you want to go back…” He trailed off suggestively.

“Hoy! I’ll talk. It all started at the squire ceremony…”

 

Stiles recounted the events for the dungeon guard carefully. He left out some of the personal bits and edited the nature of his and Derek’s relationship. It was enough, though. And he stuck to the truth about everything else—even his involvement in Kate’s murder. Of course, he rather artfully cut out anything to do with werewolves.

It was a hobbling story, but it was plausible. In the eyes of the guard, it was certainly more plausible than a story populated by supernatural creatures.

Something about this guard bothered Stiles while he was telling the story. He looked—felt—familiar. His eyes, the structure of his face…Stiles didn’t realize it until he mentioned encountering Kate and Gentian’s dinner party and being totally flabbergasted by her. It was then that he realized why the guard’s eyes were so familiar—they were almost identical to Kate’s.

He felt his mouth drop in shock and guard looked at him curiously.

“You—you’re—“ Stiles stuttered.

“Hush,” The guard hissed.

Stiles blinked, closing his mouth with effort.

“Gods, I was wondering when you’d catch on. And they called you clever,” The guard muttered to himself, tugging at his short hair. “Before you ask: yes, Katherine is my sister. My name is Christopher Argent.” A pause. Very, very quietly: “I am one of the Argentum.”

Stiles gasped.

The guard—Christopher—looked like he was ready to spit fire. “Compose yourself, or we’ll both be thrown back into prison. Even the walls have eyes in this gods-damned palace.”

Stiles shifted, trying to bring a bored expression to his face. It was a little edgy, but it worked.

“Good,” Christopher said. “Now, you have a choice.”

Stiles watched him with hooded eyes, fingers knit tightly together. The only betrayal of his falsely bored demeanor was in the tension of his hands and shoulders.

“You can come with me,” Argent said. “Or I can take you back to the dungeons, where you will rot until you hang for treason.”

Stiles blinked, yawning before he answered. “Not much of a choice, if you ask me.”

“You still have to make it,” Argent replied gruffly. He jerked Stiles up and donned his helmet in one motion. “And you have to make it quickly.”

“I’ll come with you,” Stiles said without hesitation. Going with Argent was an excellent opportunity to learn about the Argentum. Also there was not being executed for a crime he didn’t commit.

On the other hand…

“Can we make a stop before we leave?” Stiles asked, working to keep his voice low.

“Depends,” Argent answered as he roughly shackled Stiles’ hands together again. He didn’t actually lock the cuffs, Stiles noted.

“Derek?” Stiles asked as Argent made a show of checking Stiles’s ankle hobbles—he fiddled with them until the loops were big enough for Stiles to slip his boot through.

“No,” Argent said tersely. Stiles felt his face fall.

“Can I bring my horse, at least?”

“Where is she stabled?” Argent asked.

“The Hale wing,” Stiles replied, crossing his fingers.

“Where?” Argent asked again.

“Near the east exit,” Stiles said, naming a secondary door that was used mostly for transporting feed and bedding for the horses.

Argent chewed on his lip for a moment where he kneeled, then nodded and rose to his feet. His armor clattered noisily.

“If her tack isn’t already on her, you’ll have to ride bareback,” He cautioned.

Stiles sighed, anticipating the discomfort, but he would be happier to have Vespera bareback than any other horse with the finest of tack.

“All right, you have to do this well,” He said, eyes tightening slightly around the edges.

“What do I have to do?” Stiles asked, perking up at the thought of a challenge after his days of boredom.

 

“Midir, Lanyr, and Myrella,” Argent spat as he urged his horse faster. “What the hell, Stilinski?”

“How the bloody hell was I supposed to know they would be there?” Stiles shouted back as he desperately clung to Gailavira. “Blast Peter, that oily fucking serpent.” He cursed under his breath. “May Midir lose his soul and leave him to float in purgatory forever.”

Stiles and Argent had gone back down into the dungeon, where Argent had supposedly locked him back into his cell. Truly it was Argent in the cell; Stiles had donned the dark armor of the dungeon guard uniform and posted himself outside the cell.

Hours later, another guard had come down with food for the prisoner. Stiles unlocked the door and let him in, locking it behind him. Spare moments later, Argent was banging on the outer door. They left the other guard shackled in Stiles’s cell and stole his armor for Chris.

Together they took up the duties of two regular dungeon guards, waiting until the time came for the shift to change. Time passed slowly, but they also needed it to be dark to escape, so it was a necessary boredom. Stiles was surprised how vicious the guards were to their prisoners, and how vicious the prisoners were in retaliation.

Eventually the time came when a new battalion of guards came to relieve the current shift. Stiles had thankfully clapped the other man on the back, and the guard nodded knowingly. Stiles then met Argent a few moments later outside the barracks. This was the most difficult part.

Dungeon guards were not known for their intelligence; nor were they of particularly reputable character. Stiles and Argent had to play drunk enough to pass as guards who’d forgotten to remove their uniforms but not so drunk as to draw unnecessary attention.

It had worked. They stumbled around singing softly, arm in arm, and toting clay mugs full of ale. Eventually they found their way to the stables, then to the corridor with Vespera’s stall. They had quieted a while ago, and now walked with purpose.

Stiles paused by Gailavira’s stall and lifted a hand to stop Chris as well, something deep in his gut warning him. He thanked every god he could think of—almost mentally prostrating himself before Iceni—for the premonition.

In that spare moment of silence, Stiles realized that someone was in Vespera’s stall.

“Ah, Vespera,” Sighed Peter. “Such a beautiful horse, and wasted on that Stilinski. I wonder if he knows your story. I’ll have to take you back after he has been dealt with.”

Argent slowly turned to Stiles. Through the slits of his helmet, Stiles could see blue eyes burning with anger. He offered a sheepish shrug, grimacing behind his mouth guard.

They had barely begun to back away when they heard footsteps from behind. Again, Stiles’s gut tightened. He made a guess, hoping with all his being that he was wrong. He wasn’t.

“Uncle?” Derek asked, as he turned the corner.

Stiles and Argent hovered awkwardly near Gailavira, who huffed uninterestedly. Argent saluted Derek instantly, Stiles following a beat behind him. Derek nodded at the men distractedly, striding past them to Peter.

“What is it, Derek?” Peter asked from inside Vespera’s stall.

“Argent has escaped. His cell was empty, locked behind him. No one is certain how it happened. The palace guard has been alerted. Several search parties have been sent. Stiles is also gone; he left a guard chained in his place.” Derek tugged a hand through his thick, dark hair as he spoke. Gail extended a friendly muzzle to Derek, nearly brushing Stiles’ shoulder as she did so. Stiles remembered to move away from Derek’s “unfriendly” horse after a slow moment. Derek stroked her face briefly, and then his movement slowed and stopped. He frowned thoughtfully, nostrils flaring. When he met Stiles’s eyes, his gaze was shocked and furious.

Stiles flew into action. He backhanded Derek, sending him sprawling. He felt a vicious, guilty pleasure at returning the favor. Gail was screaming and bucking in her stall, but Stiles shucked one gauntlet and showed her his fingers, shoved them against her nose until she breathed the familiar smell of him. She calmed and he was inside her stall and scrambling onto her back in seconds.

Argent had already taken off, sprinting toward the east door, his progress punctuated by the clattering of his armor. Peter emerged from Vespera’s stall, confusion in his wrinkled brow.

Stiles kicked Gailavira into a gallop as soon as he’d maneuvered her out of the stall. As the horse sprang forward beneath him, he kicked Peter hard in the chest, knocking him back against Vespera’s stall door. Vespera whinnied loudly, but Stiles ignored her and pushed Gail even harder. Soon he overtook Argent and exited the east door.

Waiting there was a tacked roan stallion, almost twice Gail’s size. A warhorse, built for mowing down soldiers—not a chase. Stiles cursed. Gail couldn’t carry them both, especially weighed down with their armor. The warhorse would have to do.

The stallion nickered at Gail as Stiles pulled her to a stop. He quickly removed what armor he could, throwing off his helmet and hastily clawing at the straps of his greaves. The clamor spooked the stallion further, but Gail whickered at him in a friendly way, and the roan calmed slightly.

Here came Argent, springing neatly onto the stallion, despite the horse’s size and the extra weight Argent himself carried.

“Go!” He shouted to Stiles, digging his heels into the stallion’s sides. Stiles nudged Gail more gently, knowing she would respond to his commands even if they were soft and subtle.

The two horses leaped into a gallop in near synchronization. As they rode, Stiles and Argent ridded themselves of the armor it was plausible to remove. They kept their weapons.

 

“Stiles, wait,” Argent called. His horse lagged, sides lathered with sweat and mouth foaming.

Stiles pulled at Gailavira’s mane and whispered, “ _Puyu._ ” The mare responded immediately, slowing to a walk.

Argent was dismounting his horse, urging Stiles, who pulled again at the mare’s mane to stop her completely, to do the same.

“What—“ Stiles began to ask.

“Just do it,” Argent ordered. Stiles’s body responded to the authoritative tone of Argent’s voice almost before Stiles himself realized what he was doing.

Argent removed the roan’s saddle and saddle blanket together, throwing them brusquely over Gail’s back. She snapped lazily at his elbow as he tightened the girth, too tired to protest more vehemently.

“Can you ride him bareback?” He turned to Stiles, motioning at the huge warhorse.

“Yes, but—“ Stiles was cut off again by Argent, who mounted Gail fluidly. Immediately the mare whinnied shrilly, protesting the weight of an unfamiliar person on her back. Stiles touched her neck, trying to calm her. Argent was busily rummaging in the saddlebags Stiles hadn’t noticed before.

He came up with an apple, which he offered to Gail from her back. Stiles was about to tell him not to bother, but the mare almost dove at the apple, crunching noisily. A little hurt, Stiles wondered why he’d had to go through so much trouble to get on her friendly side.

“I’ve met her before,” Argent said in response to Stiles’s unspoken question. He patted Gail’s neck fondly. “She just needed reminding.”

That raised a whole battalion of other questions, but Stiles swallowed them and nodded. He led the roan stallion to a nearby tree stump and mounted him with a smattering of pained grunts. Only now that he thought about it did he realize what Argent was up to. Gail, the lighter and faster horse, was less tired than the huge, heavy roan. So Stiles, the lighter rider, should be on the heavy horse. Argent had probably taken the saddle off to lessen the warhorse’s load even further.

“How much longer?” Stiles asked as Christopher settled himself more firmly in the saddle and nudged Gail with his heels. He touched the stallion’s sides with his own boots, but the horse did not respond. He tapped a little more firmly and the huge beast moved forward. Stiles pitied the roan, who was panting heavily and frothing lightly. The horse couldn’t keep moving much longer, let alone keep up the headlong gallop they’d been moving at.

Argent just laughed over his shoulder; Stiles ached to think how similar that was to what Derek’s reaction probably would be.

 

It took them three days of excruciatingly paced evasion tactics to lose the hunting parties. It two weeks more of hard riding to reach the Argentum headquarters. It was an old castle, built nearly into a mountainside. And it definitely wasn’t what Stiles had expected. As Stiles would eventually find, the furnishings were elegant and rich; every room was tastefully decorated. The dining hall was huge lit with chandeliers almost identical to the ones lighting the grand throne room of the Hale palace.

The castle was not only built into the mountainside, it had a series of lower levels and a huge network of tunnels extending for miles in every direction. The last leg of Stiles and Argent’s journey had been through a serpentine tunnel, scantily lit by what Argent told him were magic torches. They lit up as someone moved through the tunnel and extinguished themselves a few minutes after the traveler had passed.

When Argent and Stiles finally surfaced, it was next to the castle’s outer wall. Argent moved quickly and quietly, disguising the tunnel’s entrance. Then he moved alongside the wall, letting Gail walk at her own pace—it was an exhausted one.

Stiles followed, dismounting from the poor roan to give the stallion a rest. The warhorse had been worn down by their pace almost as badly as Stiles had been. Argent looked a little peaked, but not too much worse for the wear. Apparently being run down by the kingdom’s forces wasn’t something new for him.

As if by magic, the portcullis opened at Christopher’s touch. Stiles didn’t even have it in him to be surprised. When they were through to the inner courtyard, they were met with a throng of people—a random assortment of commoners, servants, and nobles. A groom whisked the roan’s reins out of Stiles’s hands, Argent relinquished Gail’s reins with orders to pamper the two horses without thought of the expense.

Stiles was dead on his feet, eyes half-lidded as he tried to keep a wary gaze on those who brushed up against him. It proved to be too much effort—Argent caught him when he swayed on his feet, calling for someone to take Stiles to a guest room.

 

Stiles dreamed. He sat on the edge of an unfamiliar bed in an unfamiliar room. Iceni sat beside him, pale little feet dangling above the floor.

“A hard journey,” She commented.

“Water is wet,” Stiles replied, still exhausted to his core.

Iceni sighed at his rudeness. “I wish to give you a gift.”

Stiles perked up slightly, ever the opportunist. “A gift?”

“Come,” She stood and walked to the open window, extending a lightly freckled hand. Stiles followed as if pulled by a string, locking his fingers in hers when they were within reach. And when Iceni stopped onto the sill of the window, he followed without a thought.

The wind rustled branches around him; Stiles could hear it and see it, but he couldn’t feel it. An unnerving sensation. It was put out of his mind as Iceni stepped out over open air, pulling him with her. She floated daintily, and so did Stiles when his feet left the window sill. He marveled at the ground five stories below. Small figures clad in dark clothes moved in practiced synchronization—it looked like they were performing drills.

“How marvelous!” Stiles exclaimed, floating in a slow circle. Iceni moved with him, keeping their hands locked together.

“This is merely the beginning,” She smiled widely. Her honeyed eyes shifted to that otherworldly blue Stiles was beginning to associate with the supernatural.

She began to run, pulling Stiles along. Every step they took covered several miles—the land flew beneath them. Forests blurred into fields, and rivers wove shining ribbons around their flying feet; they bounced off of mountain ranges and leapt across mile-wide crevices.

Within minutes, they had reached the palace. Iceni guided Stiles through familiar hallways, moving without fear of being noticed. They passed whispering servants, sleeping nobles, and one lord attended to by the dubious company of several courtesans.

When they finally reached Stiles’s chambers, Iceni opened the door with a flourish. Stiles smiled dreamily at the thought of sleeping in his mattress (with his pillow!), even knowing he wouldn’t feel it. But he was met with a surprise.

Derek sat on the bed, hunched over something. As Stiles drew nearer, he saw that Derek’s eyes were closed, and his face buried deep into Stiles’s pillow. Stiles watched with bated breath as Derek inhaled deeply and opened his eyes, gaze still downcast. Even in the half-light, Stiles could see they were watery with unshed tears. Gods, how Stiles loved seeing his eyes by the moonlight.

He was nearly overwhelmed by emotion; he settled down before Derek, not feeling the stones beneath his knees. Stiles fought to keep from breaking down into tears himself, though it was a losing battle.

He heard Iceni closing the door behind her as she left. Derek looked up at the door, then dropped his gaze back to the pillow. Then, mouth falling open in shock, he slowly looked up and into Stiles’s eyes. He reached out with gentle fingers, as if to touch Stiles’s cheek.

And at this Stiles couldn’t stand it any longer. He broke into tears—they burst from him like water from a broken dam. And he _was_ broken. The toll of the long journey was not only physical—he was wrenched apart from the inside by Derek’s betrayal. Why hadn’t he spoken for Stiles? Why hadn’t he been the one to break Stiles out of prison? Why had he lashed out at Stiles? _Repeatedly._

“Stiles,” Derek whispered, sounding as broken as Stiles felt. In that word, Stiles heard apology after apology, devotion, self-hatred. An unquenchable agony. And he knew it hurt Derek to hurt Stiles; he knew Derek blamed himself, though Peter was the one pulling the strings.

Derek pulled Stiles onto the bed, and Stiles was shocked to realize he could _feel_ Derek’s hands on him, the rasp of Derek’s stubble of his neck, the gentle kisses Derek pressed there. Derek held him like he was something to treasure, something that was so fragile it would fall apart if it was touched the wrong way. Stiles’s body reacted to the man he loved despite the circumstances—the fire of his lust burned away his sadness, his fear, his exhaustion. Yes, he realized. It was true. He loved Derek.

Stiles touched every inch of skin he could reach, lingering on the smooth planes of Derek’s chest, the ridges of his abs, the trail of dark hair that stretched into his underclothes. With hesitant fingers, he reached down further, into that world unexplored. Derek moaned hotly against Stiles’s neck as Stiles’s fingers wrapped around him.

Emboldened, Stiles paused to remove Derek’s underwear before continuing to firmly stroke Derek’s length. He chanced a glance up at Derek, whose eyes were dark and intense on Stiles. Derek reached down and drew Stiles up and forward into a passionate kiss. It was filthy and wet. Derek slipped his tongue into Stiles’s mouth, bit down hard on Stiles’s bottom lip as Stiles pulled away and back down to Derek’s cock.

This time, Stiles didn’t hesitate. He wrapped his lips around Derek, slowly moving down Derek’s dick until he couldn’t fit any more inside his mouth. Stiles kept his eyes on Derek, who had his head thrown back and his hands twined in Stiles’s hair. When Stiles started moving, bobbing up and down on Derek’s dick, Derek’s hands tightened into fists. Stiles moaned around his mouthful at the pleasant pull, and, in response, Derek hummed his own pleasure.

Stiles was busily working his tongue around the head of Derek’s cock when Derek pulled him up to capture his lips again.

“Gods, Stiles, your mouth,” Derek muttered into the kiss, cradling Stiles’s face with a hand on either side. Stiles reached one hand down to stroke Derek, who responded with slow thrusts against Stiles’s fingers.

Stiles picked up the pace, pulling faster and faster until Derek’s nails dug into his back; hot aching lines stretched across his shoulders and sides. The sensation made his own cock, already hard, throb in his pants. Derek kissed Stiles’s neck and the shell of his ear, muttering praise and filth in equal amounts.

“Sucellos strike me down. Stiles, you’re so beautiful,” He sighed. Moments later: “Gods, Stiles, I want to fuck you until you scream.”

It took only a few more pulls for Derek’s thrusts to become ragged and uneven. He shuddered underneath Stiles, gasping, “I’m—“

And then he came—great ropes of thick, white cum, falling all over Stiles’s fingers, their stomachs, the blanket. Stiles slowly stroked Derek until he caught Stiles’s hands and brought them close to his face, inhaling deeply. Then he smeared cum on Stiles’s chest and abs, eyes flashing electric blue as he worked. Stiles endured his ministrations, finding them surprisingly pleasant. He slipped one hand inside his pants to stroke himself slowly.

When Derek had finished his work, he turned his attention to Stiles’s dick.

“Let me,” He growled, and Stiles was all too happy to oblige. With one quick motion, Derek had rolled himself and Stiles over, trapping Stiles beneath him. He didn’t seem concerned by the mess he’d made of his cum. It clung to their torsos and smeared across Stiles’s blankets.

Derek’s hands were huge and summer-tan, hardened by calluses. But they were unfailingly gentle as he stripped off the rest of Stiles’s nightclothes and trailed along his sides and the outside of his thighs. Derek repositioned himself to be lower, pressing whisper-soft kisses against Stiles’s hip bones, the smooth dip of his V line, and, after parting his legs, the insides of his thighs.

Stiles’s cock twitched, very interested in these proceedings, but Stiles was marveling over the intensity with which Derek focused on him. Derek’s brow was wrinkled in concentration, eyebrows drawn close together, and eyes downcast. Stiles gently reached down to card his fingers through Derek’s hair, stretching a little further to draw them behind Derek’s ear and down underneath his chin.

Derek’s face tipped up toward him, lit by the moon with lips slick and parted, was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. Derek seemed to have similar notions about Stiles, because he made a noise deep in his throat and surged up to meet Stiles in another impassioned kiss.

Derek kissed Stiles like he was the only thing keeping him alive—then he pressed playful little nips along the edge of Stiles’s jaw and up to his earlobe. Stiles responded by raking his nails against Derek’s spine, and grinding against Derek’s thigh.

Derek moved back to Stiles’s dick at a torturously slow pace; his bites transformed to hickeys, which he littered down the curve of Stiles’s body, paying special attention to Stiles’s nipples. Stiles was panting and shaking by the time Derek finally reached his dick. Teasingly, he ran the flat of his tongue up Stiles’s length, then flickered its tip against the slit at the head of Stiles’s cock. Stiles moaned obscenely, hips rolling without his consent. Derek’s hands pressed against his hips as he repeated the motion, then wrapped a fist around Stiles’s dick and captured just its head in his mouth.

His tongue made slow circles in time with the up and down of his fist. Stiles was quickly breaking down to a continuous low moan, punctuated by whispered pleas.

“Come on, Derek, please,” He murmured as Derek increased the pace incrementally. A few pulls later, Derek moved his hand to rest against Stiles’s hipbone and took all of Stiles into his mouth. The head of Stiles’s dick bumped against the back of his throat; Stiles cried out, hips jerking against Derek’s restraining hold. Derek’s eyes flashed sapphire as he resisted the urge to gag.

Stiles apologized, letting his fingers drift through the inky black of Derek’s hair.

Derek pulled off Stiles with a wet sound and met his gaze with a sudden grin. “Don’t be sorry,” He said seriously. “I want you to fuck my mouth.”

Stiles jerked involuntarily, eyes widening. Derek took Stiles in his mouth again—only half of him—but this time he remained motionless. He waited, watching Stiles’s face intently.

With a groan that came from deep inside him, Stiles made aborted thrusts into Derek’s mouth. Derek moved with Stiles, tapping Stiles’s thighs every so often to signify the need to draw a breath. He rubbed Stiles’s thighs encouragingly when Stiles’s motions became faster, deeper. Stiles gently placed his hands on either side of Derek’s face to steady him.

It took only a few moments more for Stiles to reach his climax. He pulled at Derek’s hair, unable to articulate anything. Derek pulled off with a filthy noise and wrapped his fingers around Stiles, tugging until Stiles unraveled.

His smile was beatific as Stiles came on his face, cum falling over his lashes and lips, dripping down onto his bare chest. He opened his eyes and wiped the cum off with his fingers, tasting it quickly before he smeared it over himself and Stiles again.

“Now the world knows that you’re mine,” He growled to Stiles, eying him appreciatively. “And that I’m yours.”

To this Stiles had no reply but to lean forward and kiss Derek. He could taste himself, but didn’t mind it much when it mixed with the taste of Derek himself. The kiss was short and sweet, and Derek drew Stiles close after. Stiles sighed contentedly, uncaring of the sticky mess of cum on both of them, and wrapped his arms around Derek. He nuzzled the crook of Derek’s neck.

“I love you.”

Derek went still for a moment—not rigid with discomfort, but a sort of quiet awe.

“I love you too,” He whispered, lips almost brushing the shell of Stiles’s ear.

They fell asleep slowly; Stiles was loath to let this marvelous moment pass too quickly. He pressed sweet little kisses against the parts of Derek that he could reach, making it a game with himself to touch Derek as much as possible without waking him up.

Eventually Derek (and his dick) began to respond to Stiles’s ministrations, returning the favor with kisses as soft as the ones Stiles gave him; these graduated to playful little nips, and eventually he bit the skin of Stiles’s neck firmly and gave him a dark hickey. He was delighted by Stiles’s response—little shivers and barely suppressed moans—and gave him another one on his collarbone, and another, a little lower, and another, until he’d trailed all the way down Stiles’s abs: a parallel trail to the one he’d left earlier. He seemed particularly happy to lap up their combined cum—Stiles was both mildly repulsed and greatly aroused by this.

“Again?” Stiles asked as Derek nuzzled his thatch of dark pubic hair.

Derek grinned wolfishly at him and sucked Stiles’s dick like he was trying to choke himself on it.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, my lovely readers! I have some bad news for you. Where this chapter ends is pretty much all I have written of this story. I will do my damnedest to continue with the weekly update schedule, but it will probably not happen. I'm so sorry guys, but really. You know the excuses. School, work, family and friends all take precedence over the smut. Unfortunately. That being said, please do enjoy the latest installment!

When Stiles woke, he was disconcerted to find that he was not wrapped in Derek’s arms. How real that dream had felt. How horrifyingly realistic the sensations, the emotions. He’d told Derek he loved him, hadn’t he? And all for naught—just the whispers of a sex-drunk dream Stiles.

And the _sex._

Stiles was unable to help the smile tugging on the corners of his lips, or the warmth spreading from the pit of his stomach. It didn’t matter that that was a dream; he remembered it perfectly, and would treasure it for the rest of his life.

Iceni suddenly appeared at the foot of his bed, balancing on one of the posts. She smiled toothily.

“Argent is coming to check on you, but I’m here to tell you that that was more than a dream, my darling Stiles.”

Stiles blinked, and Iceni nodded knowingly. “I brought your soul to your mentor—that’s why the memory is so clear. He will wake in your bed, thinking he fell asleep and dreamed it. But you were truly there, and it truly happened.”

She gave a sad sigh. “Poor Derek—he feels so guilty for what he cannot control. His mind is fogged heavily.”

And with that, she vanished.

That left Stiles to wonder—what about the cum? If he had really been there…

And then he scoffed to himself; what a silly thing to wonder about. His patron goddess had spirited his soul away to the man he loved—a man who was hundreds of miles away—and they had had sex and then fallen asleep in each other’s arms.

What a gift.

“Thank you, Iceni,” Stiles whispered, just as Argent eased the door of his room open.

Argent seemed surprised to find him awake, but slowly seated himself on a wooden stool and faced Stiles. For his part, Stiles sat up straighter—despite the way his muscles cried out.

“So, Stilinski, we find ourselves at the Argentum headquarters,” Christopher said.  Each word was very deliberate.

“So we do,” Sitles replied, working to disguise his uncertainty with…something. The same cautious, deliberateness that Argent spoke with, he hoped.

“Stiles, do you understand how much trouble I am in for bringing you here?” Argent sighed.

“Not really,” Stiles said honestly. He picked at a loose thread on the blanket, eyes low. He was ready for news that he was to be imprisoned again, or executed. Or packed up and sent back to the Hales, who would surely interrogate him and probably torture him.

“My father is very unhappy with me,” Argent confided. “But I’ve promised to personally oversee your training, which has appeased him some.”

“My…training?” Stiles asked, meeting Argent’s gaze with a blank stare.

“Your training as one of the Argentum,” Christopher said, a grim smile spreading across his face. “It’s similar to the training you no doubt received as a squire. History, arithmetic, philosophy, combat, and such. Training as one of the Argentum will be more specialized, however. When you have completed it, you will receive your guilder.”

“And then I will serve your purposes?” Stiles questioned; there was a sharp, icy edge to his tone.

Argent looked a little offended. “We would hope so. Out of gratitude, and shared goals. We wouldn’t force you to do it, Stiles. When an Argentum student receives his guilder, he is no longer tied to us. We may call upon him to serve in a mission, but it is always voluntary. We do not force ourselves upon anyone.” Here Argent looked particularly disgusted. “Even now, the choice is yours. You have the option to refuse our training, or to leave whenever you desire. Though that wouldn’t reflect very well on you, or me, in the eyes of the rest of the Argentum.”

Stiles frowned, eyes on the blanket again. He hadn’t expected freedom.

“Stilinski.” The tone of Argent’s voice made his gaze snap back up. “We know you are the spark. We only wish to help you; we know you will do what is right.”

Stiles’s mouth dropped open. “How…” He trailed off, then started again. “How do you know that?”

Argent gave a secretive smile. “You are not the only one with a patron, Stiles. My family has had the support of the Almighty for hundreds of years. Since the Great War. The Almighty chooses the next leader of the Argentum—woman or man, it does not matter, so long as they are chosen.”

Stiles wasn’t satisfied with this answer, and Argent could see it. He continued with a sigh.

“Perhaps a century ago, the Almighty came to the leader of the Argentum: a woman whose name was Mrycella. He spoke to Mrycella in a dream, warning her of an impending crossroads. The Argentum would either achieve their greatest success or suffer their worst failure, depending on the choice of one man. The spark, the Almighty had called him.

“It caused unprecedented panic. The Argentum could fall, after all. In the pandemonium, Mrycella was killed when a traitor attempted to usurp her power. The Argentum were left leaderless for a time. It was chaotic, but eventually the Almighty chose another—Mrycella’s daughter, Masha—to carry the mantle of leadership. Mrycella’s daughter was barely old enough to be called a woman. But she had a strong head on her shoulders.

“When the Almighty chose her, the conservative members of the Argentum council were outraged. But they bowed to his choice, as they should. Even the traitor faction whose members had murdered Mrycella did not deny Masha’s right. They had learned their lesson.

“The Almighty sent Masha vision after vision, and she transcribed them all dutifully. Together, they were a prophecy that told of the coming of the spark, the Choice, and the Argentum’s glory. The Almighty warned Masha of the prophecy’s flip side.

“The spark’s Choice was altered, and the Argentum were devastated, too scattered and too weak to regroup. The Choice decides our fate.”

Argent was deadly serious as he held Stiles’s gaze. “Your choice decides our fate.”

 

Stiles was left to ruminate for some time. Argent told him he was free to wander where he willed, and if he needed anything, he only had to find a servant and ask. Stiles’s clothes had been washed and hung in the closet, along with several other outfits, all provided by the Argentum.

Stiles sat in his room for a while. He thought about Derek, about the Argentum, about the gods. Why was it him? Why was he the spark? Wasn’t his life complicated enough without the burden of prophecies and meddling deities and _attraction to his mentor?_

He grew restless in the small room, cozy though it was. Eventually he stepped outside, trying to memorize what his door looked like before wandering away down the hall. He quickly realized his trouble was meaningless, as all the doors looked the same.

He’d turned countless corners and climbed a few staircases when he happened upon a gorgeous woman. She carried herself like a warrior queen, all elegance and ferocity. With eyes like a cloudless summer sky and hair of the deepest auburn, she was stunning in her strength and beauty.

“Stilinski,” She said coolly, offering him a polite smile.

“Just Stiles,” was his response. He felt it to be a little blunt, so he tacked on a smile as he added. “And you are?”

“Lady Victoria Argent,” She said. “I am Lord Christopher Argent’s wife. You may have met my daughter, Lady Allison, as well.”

Stiles nodded slowly, though he’d never officially met Allison.

“She is very beautiful. As are you,” He said with a short bow. “Lady Argent, may I trouble you to do me a great kindness?”

She favored him with a laugh. “That depends on what this kindness is, of course.”

“I only ask that you point me in the direction of the stables. I should like to see my horse.” Stiles smiled. She had a lovely laugh, despite her harsh, aloof demeanor.

“I shall do better than that,” She said, smiling back. “Come, I will escort you there. This old castle is a maze on its good days.”

She offered him one arm, an invitation. He took it, and she comfortably settled her hand on the inside of his elbow as if he was the one guiding her, even as she floated toward what Stiles judged was the east side of the building. Back the way he had come.

 

The castle _was_ a maze—just as confusing as the Hale palace had been when Stiles had first arrived as a fresh-faced fourteen-year-old boy. Victoria proved to be a competent guide and an accomplished conversationalist.

Stiles found that her queenly exterior disguised a mother who loved with all her being and feared for her husband and daughter in the turbulent world of the Argentum. Stiles also discovered that she had earned her guilder years ago, and was now an instructor in strategy.

“The Argentum sons trained to be soldiers,” She confided to Stiles. “And our daughters to be leaders.”

Stiles didn’t find this surprising, considering the diamond-edged brilliance that was this warrior queen. Her mind was a good match for her appearance—strong, clear, and wickedly sharp. She was a competent queen for the Argentum, he had no doubt.

He briefly wondered what kind of a queen Laura would have been. From what he heard, she was like a light in the darkness. Fresh and beautiful, with a kind heart and a just soul. Similar to her brother, Stiles thought with a pang.

 Victoria escorted him all the way to Gailavira’s stall and curtsied daintily in response to his deep bow.

“I thank you,” Stiles said formally. “I am indebted.”

“It is I who am indebted to you,” Victoria replied. Her face was cordial, but her eyes smiled. “You have provided an old woman with an hour of entertainment.”

“Lady Argent, I dearly wish to be as young as you are when I have lived through as many winters as you have,” Stiles said, knowing the word choice was a bit awkward. He hoped it would be taken as a compliment, not a stab at her age.

The smile in Victoria’s eyes did not waver; the corner of her mouth even twitched. “I must take my leave of your gracious company, my lord,” She said. “I hope to walk with you again soon.”

With another curtsy, she was gone.

Stiles forced himself not to stare after her. He’d only met one other person with that gravity, that effortless power. He told himself that they were two different people, completely separate in their ambitions.

Despite his self-assurances, he couldn’t help but feel a chill when he thought of how similar her eyes were to Peter’s.

“Gods,” He murmured to himself. “I’m drowning in blue eyes.”

After a moment of thought, he turned to smile at Gailavira. “I’ve missed you, my lady. You have the most beautiful brown eyes. Just like Vespera’s.”

Gailavira snorted at him. It seemed to Stiles she was angry, though her ears showed him she was focused on him.

“Ah, Gail, I know. I’m sorry. I had to.” Stiles sighed as he leaned against her stall door, resting his forearms on its top. “I wish I’d had another choice, but I had to hurt him to help him.”

She made a low sound and approached him. Her whiskers brushed softly against his cheeks, ears, and neck as she breathed his scent in. After a moment of stillness, she lipped at his ear in a friendly way, and Stiles grinned.

“You rascal. You pretend to be a queen, head and shoulders above me, but I know you like me.” He swung the door open and stepped inside her stall, grabbing a brush to groom her. “Don’t try to deny it.”

She snorted again, flicking him with her tail. He ignored her and set to work, grooming her coat until it shone. She sighed underneath him every so often, enjoying his long, careful strokes. After an hour’s hard work, Stiles had brushed every speck of dirt away and had combed endless knots and burrs out her mane and tail. She looked the part of a queen now, her midnight coat shining bluishly.

“It seems you’ve missed your calling,” Said a soft voice from outside the stall. “She looks fit for a king.”

Stiles turned to see the dark-haired woman who had sat beside Scott at his treason trial.

“She _is_ fit for a king, my lady,” Stiles said with a smile. “Though I shouldn’t like to give her up to one. I’ve never been served so well by a horse.”

The woman giggled, dark eyes shining, and Stiles laughed with her.

“My lady Allison,” He said with a bow. “I am Stiles. It is an honor.”

“I’ve heard much about you from Scott,” Allison said. “And from everyone else in the kingdom.”

Stiles groaned. “Don’t listen to him. Or them. I promise I don’t eat children, and I’m not as embarrassing as Scott would make me seem.”

Allison’s eyes widened. “I knew it! I knew you couldn’t possibly eat children. That habit would be a hard one to keep. But I couldn’t be certain about you drinking the blood of virgins…”

Stiles stared at her for a moment before realizing it was a joke, and then he laughed heartily.

“I like you,” He told her with a wide grin. “And it isn’t virgin blood. It’s the blood of mothers.”

She looked scandalized for a moment, but then the façade slipped and she offered a sharp, wicked grin. “I saw you walking with my mother—I’ll have to keep a close eye on you from now on.”

Stiles laughed again and stepped out of the stall, offering her an elbow. “Shall _we_ walk, my lady?”

“I do believe we shall,” Allison replied demurely as she placed her hand on the inside of his elbow.

 

After wandering for some time, Allison guided Stiles to the huge dining hall, where they ate amongst that same strange collection of commoners and nobles. Allison, for her part, rubbed elbows with a kitchen servant on the bench and put away a tidy dinner, though she ate every bite like a lady would.

Stiles found that he was more comfortable here, among the Argentum trainees, than he ever had been at a noble dinner party. However, he couldn’t bring himself to drop his noble manners. Too many times had he been burned for an unwise decision. It was better to be safe, to be excruciatingly polite in every way.

Allison teased him mercilessly throughout the meal, and Stiles found himself liking her more and more. She was a fine match for Scott—just the right mixture of playful and mature. And when she spoke about Scott, he saw the same dreamy look in her eyes that he’d seen in Scott’s face when he spoke about her. It was disconcerting, but also reassuring.

True love, as it were.

Allison introduced Stiles to a noblewoman with a pair of familiar green eyes and her fiancé, who took one look at him and didn’t bother to mask his disdain. Lydia and Jackson, the couple from Gentian’s dinner party.

“Charmed,” Stiles muttered as Jackson rudely called for a servant to take his meal away, because it was “so raw that the damn lamb was still bleating.”

Allison rolled her eyes at Jackson, whispering to Stiles. “He’s not so bad. Lydia has him on a tight leash.”

Stiles was surprised at that, but saw it to be true. Lydia’s response to Jackson’s behavior was, “Tomorrow you can cook it yourself, if it’s so awful.”

Jackson looked cowed, frowning into his lap instead of responding. After a moment he excused himself and stalked angrily away, leaving Stiles with two beautiful women.

“Men,” Stiles snorted. Jackson’s pouting was all too similar to Derek’s.

Lydia and Allison laughed at this.

“And if you aren’t a man, what are you?” Lydia asked. She looked like a cat that had just cornered a mouse. Those penetrating green eyes had a very feral aspect.

“A eunuch,” Stiles replied, utterly straight-faced.

Allison sputtered, gasping as she choked on her wine. Lydia looked like she was sorry she’d asked.

Stiles grinned.

 

The next day was very similar. Stiles eventually found his way down to the stables (it was a long, arduous journey, and it required the help of many a passing servant), pampered Gailavira, found Allison, and spent the day strolling the grounds with her. At dinner they were joined by Lydia and Jackson again. Victoria and Chris also found seats at their table, so the conversation was much less lively. Jackson was also subdued, muttering into his soup bowl more than he was adding to the conversation.

After dinner, Argent offered to escort Stiles to his room. Stiles accepted graciously, making polite small talk until they reached his door. There they paused, Stiles with his hand on the doorknob.

“Have you come to a decision?” Argent asked. The tone of his voice let Stiles know the conversation had taken a more serious turn.

Stiles waited for a moment. He’d spent a lot of time considering the choice the Argentum had given him. And deep in his heart, where indecision turns into resolution, he knew he had already made a choice. But he waited, considering it one final time.

“I will train with the Argentum,” Stiles said, and his tone had the flat finality of a bell tolling for a funeral.

Argent nodded briskly, the beginnings of a smile turning the corners of his lips. “We will begin tomorrow.”

Stiles nodded back and stepped into his room. He fell onto his bed with the deepest of sighs, praying he’d made the right decision.

 

Stiles found himself being shaken awake at some point. It was still pitch black in the small guest room; he had no idea who had given him such a rude awakening.

“Wha—What?” He stuttered as his mind slowly came awake. Almost without realizing it, he swept his arms against the hands that grasped him, swatting them away with a sharp hit to the person’s wrists. He heard a nearly inaudible grunt.

Eyes wide in the blackness, Stiles sat upright and held his breath.

“Trollops and trolls,” A male voice muttered, then continued on to curse more viciously under his breath. Stiles bolted to his feet, struggling to free himself of the tangle of his twisted blankets. Before the other person could react, he lunged in their direction, hoping to connect with something out of sheer luck.

And it seemed that the gods were smiling upon him, because he made solid contact, his shoulder ramming into what he guessed was the other person’s gut. They fell in a messy heap, each of them scrambling to subdue the other.

Finally Stiles found his arms locked behind his head, his neck bent at a precarious angle. Aggravating his captor could result in the dislocation of one or both arms.

“I yield,” He said aloud, as if it needed to be articulated.

“I can’t imagine why you wouldn’t,” Responded the other, in a surprisingly civil tone. The timbre of his captor’s voice was familiar to Stiles. Even as he struggled to find a position that didn’t make his shoulders ache, Stiles tried to remember where he’d heard that voice and whose face it belonged to.

Moments later, he found it was unnecessary to strain himself; bright light flared from a lantern.

“ _Christopher?_ ” Stiles gasped.

“Good morning, trainee,” Christopher replied with a wide, predatory grin. The expression belonged to Derek and Peter, in Stiles’s mind, and he found it disconcerting to see it on another person’s face.

“I—uh—good morning?” Stiles replied, blinking against the bright light. Still a bit bleary, he rubbed at his face as Christopher released his arms.

“Ready to begin?” Argent asked. Then he grimaced and rolled his wrists in small circles. “I suppose we already have, though. You surprised me there. Good job—I probably won’t be able to use a bow for the rest of the day.”

“Thanks—er, sorry—sir,” Stiles frowned. “I’m not sure what I should be saying.”

Christopher laughed. “You can use my name, Stiles. It’s not so formal here as it is in the royal palace. We won’t hurt you for forgetting someone’s title. The only punishment we’ve ever given—for any offense—is physical labor. Nothing inhumane, mind you. Just something to make you think twice next time.”

Stiles smiled sadly, thinking of just how intimately he knew the palace’s system of punishment.

“I must warn you,” Argent said. “When you enter the Argentum, you swear a blood oath to never reveal our secrets. You may swear it on whichever god or goddess you choose. Most choose the Almighty, as he is patron to the Argent family and the Argent family governs the Argentum. But, as I said, the choice is yours.”

Stiles smiled again, more wryly now. He already had a patron. “That’s what they keep telling me. ‘The choice is yours, Stiles,’ ‘You are the spark,’ ‘You decide the fate of Arcadia,’” A wave of his hand. “It’s all so theatrical. Like a mummer’s play. I’d love to simply be a run of the mill squire.”

Christopher grinned. “We are rarely what we wish to be.”

“I’m aware.” A thought came to Stiles. “Do the gods truly smite you if you break a blood oath? I’ve always found that a bit hard to swallow.”

Christopher raised his eyebrows; his expression took a more serious cast. “You’ve seen what happens when a blood oath is broken.”

Stiles frowned. That couldn’t be true. He’d never seen anyone spontaneously combust, or be devoured by a pillar of burning white light. But then he remembered his first true encounter with magic—

“The bandits,” He whispered, eyes widening.

Christopher’s face tightened. “Not bandits. Argentum. My brothers.”

Stiles was reeling as waves of realization flowed over him. He spoke in broken phrases as the thoughts came to him. “When they spoke their purpose…the Almighty smited them for betraying the mission…But why speak at all? Unless death is preferable to capture by the Hales…Hmm…Beast…They said beast…They were going to kill a beast…they said I knew—Derek. _They were going to kill Derek._ ” At this his voice lowered and his eyes sparked dangerously.

“Stiles, I don’t expect you to understand now, but Derek is a threat to every person in Arcadia.” Stiles’s fierce expression did not change; Argent bulled on. “Especially you. We wanted to neutralize him—not kill him, but capture him. That squad went rogue. Sometimes—” He looked pained. “—sometimes the Argentum believe too strongly in the ultimate goal. They are swayed beyond reason, beyond our control.”

Stiles was stirred by the emotion in Argent’s voice. He sounded like he blamed himself for the deaths of the rogue Argentum. It was strange to see such depth of emotion from an Argent. Stiles had been imagining the Argentum as remorseless, ruthless killers.

“Our ultimate goal is the safety of all Arcadians. I believe that coexistence with the Hales and the other descendants of Lycaon is possible. I didn’t always believe this, but—“ His smile was a strange cross between sheepish and proud. “—I was enlightened by someone wiser and kinder than me. Most of the other Argentum believe that the only way to secure the safety of the kingdom is to kill or drive away the werewolves.”

Stiles bristled. “They’re not animals. They’re not rodents to be hunted and killed, not some species of pest to eradicate. They’re as human as you or I.”

Argent was quiet for a moment, and then: “Human is a subjective term, Stiles. Humans show compassion. Humans don’t throw one of their own into the dungeon and starve him for weeks. Humans don’t beat their own, especially for negligible reasons. Humans don’t lie to further themselves, or force poverty upon thousands to further their own wealth. The Hales may be men, but they are not human.”

Stiles was quiet, too. The fire in his bones had faded. As much as he wanted to defend Derek, Argent wasn’t lying.

“Come,” Argent pulled Stiles to his feet. “You’re going to fight until you can’t stand anymore. And then we’ll teach you some history.”

 

Argent was good for his word. Stiles had been in an almost constant state of fatigue for the past few weeks. The taxing flight from the Hale palace hadn’t helped his strength, but the easy pace of the last two days had restored him somewhat. Still, he was no match for the other Argentum trainees.

And there were many trainees. Scores of them. Many were Stiles’s age or older. But at one point he faced a twelve year old girl on the sparring court and promptly found himself flat on his ass.

They were all experienced fighters. Allison found him every so often and offered gentle criticism. He was far from where he’d begun—Derek made sure that he was proficient at hand fighting and fencing. But the Argentum drills were unfamiliar. He haltingly stumbled through them, making a fool of himself over and over again.

It only took a few hours for him to break down. By midmorning his kicks and punches had grown as weak as a kitten’s batting paws. Half an hour later, his blocks were becoming too slow to save him from the other fighters’ blows. It took another half hour for him to fall to his knees, groaning weakly. His drill partner helped him back up, then called for Allison.

She whisked him away to the dining hall, where the cooks were enjoying the sluggishness between breakfast and lunch. Once there, she ordered him to down a sizeable brunch, watching like a hawk until he did as she bid. When she was satisfied, she led him to the library.

The Argentum archives were double the size of the palace library. Stiles sputtered when Allison told him there were three more levels of books below-ground, and then another level beneath that used for tutoring. She promptly showed him to this exact level, taking pity on him and using an elevator (supported by “magic and also some pulleys”) to get there instead of forcing him to take the stairs.

The room was as vast as the floors above. There were rows upon rows of tables; some were occupied, but most were empty. As Allison led him along the side of the room, she confided that most Argentum trainees were still practicing their combat skills. These were higher-level Argentum students, who had privileges the trainees did not.

The sides of the room were pockmarked with little niches. Some were very small, affording room for only one person. There were also niches with round tables surrounded by benches—these were intended for groups of four or five. Some of the niches were not niches at all, but passageways to larger rooms. Every niche was marked with a pair of symbols, each a different color.

When she reached an empty cubby marked with a silver arrow and a blue crescent moon, she turned a sharp little smirk on Stiles and said, “This one seems to suit your divided loyalties. Wait here.”

Obediently, Stiles seated himself and watched as she walked away. This niche was one with a table and bench; Stiles slowly found himself drooping further and further to the side until he’d pillowed his head on his arm and curled his legs up on the seat.

He slept very shallowly, plagued by dreams of Derek with red eyes and bloody hands. Peter lurked in the shadows, blue eyes glittering. He even heard Iceni’s voice—Stiles struggled to listen, knowing it could be important, but she whispered too softly for him to distinguish any words.

Allison returned and Stiles woke with a start, murmuring sheepish apologies. He rubbed at his face, shoving the heels of his hands against his itching eyes. When he removed them, he saw that Allison was watching him with sympathy in her gaze. Something about that rubbed him the wrong way and he straightened, folding his arms across his chest and returning her gaze with something of a challenge in his eyes.

Allison’s brows rose at this, and a smile touched her lips before she rapped her knuckles against pile of books she’d brought back.

“Where would you like to start?” She asked.

Stiles looked over each volume carefully. Formidable titles like _A Brief History of the Argentum: Protectors of Arcadia; The Principles and Philosophy of the Argentum; The Greatest Sorcerers of Arcadia,_ and _The Psychology of Werewolves: A Study of Human and Wolf Minds_ stared back at him. Nothing would be gained from delaying. He closed his eyes and chose one at random. _The Hale Dynasty: From Peacemakers to Earthshakers._

“Earthshakers?” Stiles laughed. “How melodramatic.”

Allison shrugged. “It’s the truth. Peter Hale has altered the course that the Hale dynasty has been following for centuries. The Hale rulers have all been fair for the most part, and Arcadia has flourished under their rule. Peter has the soul of a conqueror, but he’s smart enough to recognize that the kingdom isn’t strong enough to go to war. Yet.”

Stiles frowned. “Yet? Is that where he’s headed?”

Again, Allison shrugged. “We can only speculate. We know he has been using magic, though.”

Stiles’s frown deepened into a scowl, and Allison was quick to notice.

“Magic isn’t evil. It is merely a means to an end. The intent behind the magic is what makes it good or evil.” She tried for reassuring, but Stiles wasn’t having it.

“I’ve never seen it used for anything but pain.” Stiles retorted, thinking of the rogue Argentum and Derek.

“Haven’t you?” Allison asked. “The elevator we used to get down here wouldn’t be possible without magic. Argentum physicians employ small charms almost constantly to aid healing. Skilled sorcerers can communicate over long distances. Even the Argentum castle is shielded by illusion.”

Stiles grumbled under his breath, but didn’t offer any rebuttals.

Allison placed a hand on Stiles’s. “Stiles, I know you’re angry. I know Derek has hurt you, and I know Peter has hurt you even more deeply. I also know you distrust the Argentum. My purpose is not to tell you what to believe, but to teach you what I have been taught.” She smiled wryly. “Even if I do not agree with much of it.”

At this, Stiles cocked his head curiously. Allison met his questioning gaze with a shrug.

“The Argentum often have polarized beliefs. For example: many of us believe the Hale family should be assassinated or driven away from Arcadia. But _I_ think we can coexist—the world we live in today is not the same one that Lucian and Lycaon lived in. They solved their problems with violence. Today we can solve our problems without it.”

Stiles considered this, then asked. “What do you want to do to the Hales, then?”

Allison shrugged. “I believe Peter should be punished most harshly. The punishment itself should be nothing worse than banishment for life, though I do not think it wise to let him roam freely. The other surviving members of the family should be left alone. Perhaps we can extract a blood oath from them to not harm any innocents, but I think that is also unnecessary.”

Stiles squinted at her, suddenly recalling what Argent said about coexistence with werewolves, about how he was enlightened. Before he could say anything, Allison laughed at his queer expression.

“Enough of this—save the philosophy for when we read the book on Argentum principles. I see you’ve decided to begin with the Hale dynasty.”

 

And begin they did. They took turns reading from the book, with Allison occasionally stopping to question Stiles thoroughly about not just the text, but its implications as well. They continued for hours, barely enough to read a few decades into the Hale dynasty.

Stiles’s head was swimming with historical and political figures from centuries ago when Allison finally bade him to mark his place and stop. With a small smile for him, she took the book from him and placed it underneath her bench, doing likewise with the other volumes she had brought.

“Won’t someone take them?” Stiles asked as she ushered him out of the niche.

“They know better,” She replied with a grin, pointing at the silver arrow that marked the niche. “That means only the Argent family is allowed to use this one. You’re a, hmm, _special_ case, though.”

Stiles accepted the barb without so much as a blink. Allison led him back up through the levels of books. So many books. Stiles felt himself cheering up at just the thought of being surrounded by so many words.

“Am I allowed to read these?” Stiles asked, almost salivating.

Allison laughed. “Of course. What is the purpose of a library if no one is to read the books?”

Stiles shrugged. “Many of the books at the palace library are forbidden to the public.”

Allison met his gaze squarely and Stiles felt taken aback by the raw, fierce emotion in her eyes. “Stiles, have you not yet seen that this castle is nothing like your royal palace?”

Stiles shrugged. It seemed to be his new default response. Where were his words when he needed them?

Allison held his eye for a moment longer, frowning, and then they were suddenly on the first level of the library. She caught him by the elbow and led him to the hall; Stiles went willingly, sensing that something or another was amiss.

When she’d dragged him to an unpopulated section of the hallway, Allison turned and crowded Stiles against the wall. She was shorter than him, but not by much. And just now, she was all kinds of intimidating. Stiles was also surprised to realize that his body was not responding to her proximity in the slightest way. Well, that was news.

“Stiles, this is important.” Allison whispered, her dark eyes intense. “I’m going to take you to meet with my grandfather. He is acting leader of the Argentum—that means the Almighty chose him. You _must_ be careful, though. He is the reason so many Argentum have gone rogue and tried to kill Derek Hale. Our main target is Peter, but Gerard fans the flames until many Argentum are frenzied by their desire to kill. He is responsible for many of the lives we’ve lost.” Her voice was low and angry; her dark eyes blazed.

Stiles’s mouth tightened, but he didn’t say anything.

“He’s a snake, Stiles.” Allison cautioned, her gaze still locked with his. “Be careful.”

Stiles pushed her away with a slight frown; Allison looked affronted. “Why are you telling me this? Aren’t you his family?” He asked.

Allison pursed her lips. “I’m telling you this because I care about you—I know your role in all of this madness, and I want you to make the right decision. Gerard may be my grandfather, but that does not make us family.”

“What about ‘blood is thicker than water?’” Stiles asked. As much as he liked her, he wasn’t sure yet on whether he could trust Allison. What if this was part of the Argentum plan to sway him to their side?

Allison smirked. “You mean, ‘the blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb?’”

“That—“ Stiles paused, thinking about the words for a moment. “Water of the womb?”

“The bonds of friendship are stronger than bonds of blood,” Allison elaborated.

Stiles frowned at her. “Is that truly what it means?”

“Yes.”

“Gods all damn. But my point still stands. You’re family. What has he done to make you turn your back on him?” Stiles persisted.

And now her gaze dropped to the floor and her face became a blank slate. “He taught me to be someone I am not. He almost made me lose everything.” She looked up, after a moment, tears in her dark eyes. “I lost _myself._ ”

Stiles, shocked by her deeply emotional display, bit his lip. “My apologies, Allison. I didn’t…”

She shook her head—hard, as if she could shake away the memories—and gave Stiles a brittle smile.

“All is well now. Scott—“ A more genuine smile curved her lips. “—When I met Scott, I realized Gerard was wrong. Not all werewolves deserve to die. We can live together. Peacefully.”

Stiles smiled back at her; Scott was lucky to have her. However, one question did bother him. “If you mean to coexist with the Hales, do you intend to allow them to keep the throne, as well?”

At this, Allison’s face darkened again. “I don’t know. I don’t want to, but perhaps it would be easiest. I don’t know if we can trust any of them to rule properly. Gerard—“ She cut herself off. “My grandfather hopes to wed me to Derek after Peter has been disposed of. That way, the Argentum can have a hand in ruling Arcadia.”

Stiles stiffened, but kept his face cool. “Ah, that is a, uh, well-considered strategy.”

Allison arched one brow at him. “You look ill. No matter, though, we’ll be late if we dally much longer. Grandfather does not handle tardiness in a very graceful manner.”

 

Stiles was shown to a large study. It was furnished with dark wood and rich, deep hues. Despite its luxuriousness, Stiles felt oppressed by the heavy atmosphere. The curtains were drawn and it was lit very dimly. It felt like a fashionable prison cell.

Stiles took up a position beside the violet high-backed chair that faced Gerard, waiting for permission to seat himself. Once upon a time, he’d have damned etiquette and done as he pleased. He was more wary now, especially after Allison’s warnings.

“Have a seat, my boy,” Without looking at him, Gerard waved one gnarled hand and then leaned down to reach one of the lower drawers of his desk. The desk itself was spotless—not a single paper on its polished surface. A crystal ball that held pointed teeth sat on one corner. Stiles felt mildly nauseous, but did as he was told.

Gerard made a noise of discovery and pleasure, placing a decanter of milky liquid on the table. This was followed by two crystal glasses and a sharp grin.

“I propose a celebratory drink,” Gerard said as he unstoppered the bottle—immediately Stiles could smell it, sharp with alcohol and herbs—and poured a bit of the fragrant liquid into each glass.

Stiles reached for his glass only after Gerard took ahold of his. The older man swirled it slowly and inhaled with another grin.

“This is good liquor, my boy. Wolfsbane and elderberry brandy, with some odds and ends for flavor.” Gerard said, his dark eyes intent on Stiles.

This gave Stiles pause. “Wolfsbane?”

“Perfectly safe,” Gerard placated, taking a sip to prove his point. “Unless you’re a werewolf.”

Stiles frowned, Allison’s words floating in his mind. A snake, she’d called him. But what could he do? Refuse?

He took a cautious sip of the liquor and found it to be much stronger than he’d been anticipating. It burned his tongue and carved a path of fire down his throat before settling in the bowl of his abdomen with a more pleasant warmth.

“It’s spicy,” He said after a moment of awkward silence.

“Indeed,” Gerard said thoughtfully. He took another hearty swallow. “Delicious, though. And a traditional Argentum drink, to boot.”

He fell silent, as did Stiles. The moments ticked by. Stiles kept his gaze firmly on his wolfsbane liquor, studious and stubborn.

“Stiles,” Gerard finally said, forcing Stiles to glance up and meet his gaze. “You have some questions for me, I’m sure.”

Stiles was suddenly rocked by the urge to break into gales of laughter. Gods yes, he had questions. He had so many questions, he wasn’t even sure where to start. It took a great deal of thought, but he finally  settled on something safe, something that wouldn’t get him killed. Probably.

“Why was Kate Argent on Derek’s land the night she was killed?”

Gerard grinned suddenly. “You certainly aim for the heart of the matter, don’t you?”

Stiles met his eye steadily, wordlessly, as he took another sip of his brandy.

A sigh from Gerard. “Katherine volunteered for a reconnaissance mission. Given her history with Derek, I had some misgivings about this assignment for her. Apparently they were well-founded.”

“I found her,” Stiles said quietly, sadly. “She had an Argentum ring in her mouth.”

“She did?” Gerard frowned and finished his remaining brandy. “That’s…interesting.”

“What does it mean?” Stiles asked. It was obvious it meant something, the way Gerard scowled and worried at his lip as he settled further into his chair.

“It stems from an old Argentum tradition. When werewolves were killed in their beta form, hunters would pull out one of their canine teeth, pry the claw from one of their fingers—generally the ring finger of their left hand—and leave it in the canine’s place. Then they kept the tooth as a trophy. The wolves retaliated by removing an Argentum member’s rings and leaving them in their mouth.” Gerard stroked his chin thoughtfully. “That hasn’t been done for many years, though. It seems that someone with an education killed Kate.”

Stiles was doing his best to keep his composure. How could those hunters be so barbaric? Kate had had a bone necklace on her. Were those her trophies?

Gerard eyed Stiles. “I know what you’re thinking. But see how we’ve evolved! That particular cruelty has been outlawed for decades. And compare us to the werewolves: they live in the past.”

Stiles glared. “Kate had a necklace decorated with fangs. Where did she get that, if this— _practice_ has been outlawed for so many years?”

Gerard’s face hardened; something analytical entered his eye. “I gave it to her. It’s a talisman charmed with an old protective magic—to keep wild animals away.”

Stiles’s eyebrows rose. Is that why Vespera had spooked when he first saw her? Gail had done the same…And getting the gelding near Kate had been impossible.

“Just animals?” Stiles asked—maybe it worked on werewolves as well. Maybe that explained Derek’s abnormal behavior around her.

“Werewolves, too, but not quite as powerfully.” Gerard acknowledged. “It was made to protect from animals—bears, boars, cougars—but only acted as deterrent for anything…wilder.”

Stiles chewed on the inside of his cheek as he considered that. One mystery solved, at least. Provided Gerard was telling the truth, of course.

Gerard let him ruminate without saying anything. He watched closely, though, as the gears of Stiles’s mind worked furiously.

“Do you know who killed her?” Stiles asked.

Gerard frowned thoughtfully. “It was Derek. There are no other werewolves in that area.”

Stiles bristled. “How do you know that? She was killed on a reconnaissance mission—maybe she would’ve come back with the report that a rogue werewolf was there.”

Gerard met his eye. “Wouldn’t Derek have done something about a rogue werewolf in his territory?”

Stiles opened his mouth to argue, but then paused to consider that. It was true. Derek had said that wolves were territorial. He had also said that there were friendly werewolves in the area. Perhaps one of them had taken matters into their own hands. Or claws, more accurately. So Gerard wasn’t as all-knowing as he thought.

Gerard leaned back in his chair, a satisfied little smile on his lips. “Anything else you’d care to ask?”

“What are you going to do to Derek?”

He hated himself for asking, for betraying that he cared. But he had to know—he sensed how much power Gerard had. For all Allison’s preaching about coexistence, this man decided the course of the battle—and thus, Derek’s fate.

“We’ll have to kill him.” Gerard looked like he _truly_ regretted having to murder another human being. “The Hales simply cannot carry on ruling. Peter will drive this kingdom into the ground. He’s going to go to war with our neighbors soon.”

Stiles frowned. The Argentum kept saying that—Peter was planning on invading the surrounding kingdoms. Did they have an informant of some sort on the Council?

“How do you know what Peter is planning?” Stiles asked.

Gerard smirked. “It’s obvious. He’s already drafted twice this year. The castle’s fortifications are being reinforced. There’s a standing offer of money for scrap metals. Soon he’ll be making rounds to the prominent cities—giving speeches, gathering public support, firing the peasants up. He’s gearing Arcadia toward war.”

Stiles frowned. How had he not noticed all of that? Had he been living under a rock? No, he reminded himself. He’d been travelling for weeks, imprisoned for weeks before that, and the months before _that_ had been spent training hard. Under Derek’s watchful eyes, in his secluded little manor. With little to no news from the outside.

Gerard had poured himself another serving of the wolfsbane liquor. He gestured with the bottle toward Stiles’s cup, but Stiles shook his head. The warmth in his belly had already begun to migrate up toward his head, making it pleasant and light. His lips felt a little rubbery.

“What do you want from me?” His final question. For now.

Gerard’s surprisingly dark eyebrows arched toward his bald crown. “What an interesting question. I want you to make the correct choice.”

Stiles, frustrated, yanked his hands through his unruly hair. “Yes, but what is the _choice_?”

Gerard smiled. “That I cannot tell you.” He waved a placating hand as Stiles grew more agitated. “I do not know. No one does, excepting the gods, of course.”

Stiles bared his teeth in an expression of irritation—one he had adopted from Derek, he thought with a pang.

Gerard grinned back, teeth wide and white. After a moment of quiet, he said, “Is that all, my boy? You look peaked. Perhaps you should get some rest. Your training has only just begun.”

Stiles composed himself and nodded formally as he rose from the chair. Gerard stayed seated, but Stiles bowed to him anyway: a clear show of deference. He made his exit, meek as a mouse, as Gerard murmured quietly over the quality of the wolfsbane brandy.

 

That night, Iceni sent him again to the palace again. He made his way there on his own, galloping through golden fields and over silvery rivers like an unbroken stallion. He relished the way his body felt fresh and rejuvenated—as if he hadn’t spent the last few weeks working himself to the bone.

Derek was not in his chambers—or Stiles’s—so Stiles took a little explorative journey through the castle.

Stiles found that he was invisible and intangible. He passed through walls slowly, marveling at the random sealed corridors and the unfilled crawl spaces in between rooms. The palace was like a rat’s nest.

It would’ve taken him hours to find Derek, but he had the good luck to overhear a yawning page and the chief steward’s hushed conversation.

“Oh gods. Where is Bello? I sent for Bello Silvera! Who are you?” Moaned the chief steward.

“Bello is in the infirmary, milord. Marquis Finstock sent me in his place.” The page said regretfully. “I’m Dexter of Quarry Valley.”

“Andraste have mercy on me,” Muttered the steward. “Dexter of Quarry Valley, the King has need of a runner. Go to his chambers. Mind your etiquette lessons. I hope you’re as accomplished as Bello is.”

The page puffed his chest importantly, bowed, and trotted off in the direction of Peter’s suite. Stiles followed closely—as much as he wanted to see Derek, his curiosity was stronger. What did Peter need a runner for, this late at night?

The page was fast and comfortable in his knowledge of the palace—he led Stiles on a journey punctuated by shortcuts and dusty, ill-used passageways. Finally they arrived at Peter’s door, where two guards glared down at the boy.

“The King sent for an errand boy?” Dexter said by way of greeting. Stiles grinned to himself and ghosted through the door, thanking Iceni silently.

From behind him, Stiles heard one of the guards rap the door sharply and call, “Sire, you requested a runner?”

Peter bustled into the front room, fully clothed and a little hollow-cheeked. “Send him in!”

Stiles stepped out of the errand boy’s way, unsure he wanted someone passing through his incorporeal body. Dexter dropped to one knee before Peter.

“How may I service you, Your Grace?”

Peter handed him a note, rolled up and sealed with blue wax. “Give this to Ahern, the stablemaster.”

“As you command,” Dexter replied deferentially, and was up and out the door in moments.

Peter watched him go, nodding to the guards outside his door; they bowed in response and closed the doors after the runner. Peter bolted the lock from the inside, his movements quick and nervous. Stiles followed him as he scurried to his study, an elegant and lavishly furnished room that was lit by blue-white torches. _Magic_ , thought Stiles.

“Gods all damn,” Peter muttered under his breath. Then he seated himself behind his desk and, in a tone that could be considered plaintive, said, “Midir? We need to speak.”

Stiles panicked. Humans couldn’t see him, but he certainly wouldn’t be invisible to a god. He flailed around for a moment, trying to find somewhere to hide. But it was useless. Midir appeared almost instantaneously.

He was huge, with arms like a dock worker and legs like an experienced horseman. His bare arms were silvery with crisscrossing scars. He wore a dark jerkin, scuffed with use and rent in some places, so that it showed gleaming chainmail underneath. He was also clad in an old-fashioned leather skirt, complete with leather leggings. His clothes were all pitch black, though the metal glittered dangerously. His face was wide and stern, with a dark, braided beard that melded harmoniously into his dreadlocked hair. His skin was as black as his armor, darker even than the residents of the Luari Isles. The only lightness on him was his eyes. They were ghostly white with no pupils at all.

He surveyed the room, unnerving eyes narrowing as he saw Stiles.

Stiles felt pure terror wash over him; he was about to die. The certainty of it sent electricity jolting through his body and a dense weight settling in his chest. His heart beat like a rabbit’s.

But Midir didn’t say or do anything to him. He merely folded his arms as his gaze slowly slid over to Peter. “Why have you summoned me?”

Peter shot up from the desk and paced the far side of the room as he spoke. “This is all going to shit. The Argentum have Stilinski. I can’t get into the castle, and my spies can’t get close to him.”

“How close do they have to be to kill him?” Midir asked. His voice was deeper than any Stiles had ever heard; it vibrated through his chest.

Peter whirled on Midir. “I can’t kill him! Don’t you see? He has to make the choice! If he doesn’t make the choice, then the prophecy will simply come to fruition in twenty years. Or a hundred. A different spark will be born and this whole shitfest will just repeat itself!”

Stiles could almost see Midir’s hackles raise at Peter’s insolent tone. “Remember your place, mortal.”

Peter hunched like he’d been struck. “My apologies, Midir. What I meant to say was…This is my chance to destroy the Argentum. If Stilinski makes the choice in our favor, the Argentum will scatter and disintegrate. I will be the unquestionable ruler of Arcadia.”

Midir raised one brow. Stiles, trying to calm his racing heart, wondered if the gods learned the nuances of expressions from humans or if it had been the other way around. “And your nephew? You no longer worry about him usurping your power?”

Peter shrugged. “He is under my control. I cannot kill him, or I’ll risk losing Stilinski forever. The moment his use comes to an end, I’ll send him on his merry way.”

“To me,” Midir corrected. “Send him to me. His soul is strong and bright.”

Stiles felt like his blood had suddenly turned into ice. Sharp splinters settled into his joints, needled at his ribs. Peter was going to kill Derek? That’s what it meant to send him to Midir, wasn’t it? Midir was the ferrier of souls to the Dark Realms.

Peter paused in his pacing, looking for all the world like a jealous lover “Is his soul better than mine?”

Midir laughed—the sound of it was like a boulder falling into a ravine. Huge and sudden. “Your soul and his are two entirely different animals. You are an oily serpent while he is a golden lion. Or perhaps a silver wolf, for he sings sad melodies with his heart. You suit me better; that is why I allowed you to bargain with me.”

Peter grinned to himself. “Ah yes. My greatest bargain of all.”

“Shall I remind you of its terms? You will uphold your side of the bargain. If you do not…” Midir trailed off threateningly.

Peter placated him immediately. “Of course I will, of course I will. That is the point of all of this. When Stilinski makes his choice and the Argentum die off, I’ll have the time and energy to focus on the invasion of Laconia. You’ll be swimming in souls, and you’ll have the power to best the Great Ones. Forever.”

Midir grinned; Stiles noted that his white teeth had been sharpened into fangs. “And you will be ruler of not one kingdom, but two!”

Peter laughed delightedly. “Why stop at Laconia? I can take Aran and Sitia as well! I’ll take this entire continent! And all the others!”

Midir’s mirth did not fade for a long moment. Then he met Stiles’s sickened gaze and gave a wolfish grin.

“I see you are not amused, sly little fox. Won’t you come out of hiding?” Midir taunted.

Stiles felt an awful lurch—like he had been punched in the gut; at the same moment, Peter turned to see who Midir was addressing. His eyes widened as they fell on Stiles.

“Stilinski?” He asked, jaw dropping.

“Fucking hell,” Stiles whispered. Now everything really _was_ going to shit.

Midir gave another one of his booming laughs. Stiles was reminded of the time he’d been caught in a storm with Scott. The thunder had come from what seemed like directly overhead—the crack had nearly deafened him, and the following rumble felt like it displaced organs inside his body.

“Little fox, what do you think of Peter’s planning? He is as sly as you are, slinking around in the dark!” Midir seemed delighted by Stiles’s terror: he laughed again.

“How did you…” Peter trailed off. Then he gathered himself and straightened with a grin. “What _do_ you think of my plans, Stiles? You are a central figure in them, after all.”

Stiles forced himself to calm down enough to answer. When he trusted himself to speak, he said, “They seem a little rough around the edges. And you seem desperate to pay off your debt to Midir.”

Stiles inclined his head respectfully toward the god, in no rush to earn his displeasure.

Peter’s eyes narrowed. “What do you know about my debt?”

Midir grinned, eyes on Stiles. “He knows nothing, only what he has overheard.” Then he glanced at Peter. “Shall I tell him?”

Apparently Peter wasn’t eager to upset Midir, either. He met Midir’s gaze with wide eyes. “Do what you deem best, Midir. I’m sure you are correct.”

“Peter died eight years ago.” Midir told Stiles, relishing the way the squire squirmed under his gaze. “When I came for him, he put his gilded tongue to use and offered a trade. His soul for his niece’s, and more to follow.

“I was intrigued, of course. Mortals usually beg and plead, if they don’t offer themselves willingly. Only a few fight back. Sometimes they try to batter me with their nonexistent bodies. Even less fight back with words, and none so as eloquently as Peter did. I could see how desperate he was to survive, and I could see that his offers were not empty ones.

“So the bargain is as follows: Peter lives with my patronage so long as he gives me the souls I want.”

Midir looked incredibly proud of himself. Peter also looked smug, for his own part. As he should be, reasoned Stiles. He had literally talked his way out of death.

“So why did you tell me that Derek had killed Laura?” Stiles asked Peter.

Peter shrugged. “I wanted to see how much you trusted him. If you didn’t trust him, I would’ve been able to get you to murder him, and I’d be rid of a possible usurper. Since you do trust him, I learned what assets I need to protect.”

He gave another sharp grin. “Though, since then, I’ve learned your feelings extend a little further than trust…”

Stiles felt sick. “How?”

Midir snorted, and Peter rolled his eyes. “Are you that dull? Gods. I was controlling him!” Peter’s eyes glimmered red—that same red that haunted Stiles’s nightmares, the same red that he saw in Derek’s eyes—and sparks burst from his outstretched palms. “ _He-ello?_ Magic!”

So it was true. Peter was behind it all. Peter was behind every godsdamned thing. Peter took his silence as stupefaction.

“Must I spell it out for you? _I_ killed Kate Argent. _I_ killed Laura. _I_ was the one who picked you up at the squire ceremony and shook you like a rag doll. _I_ called you my bitch. _I_ bloodied your face and bruised your ribs.” He laughed cruelly. “How many times have I beaten you? How many times have you come crawling back?”

Stiles remained silent—reining in his anger. He knew that he couldn’t do anything. Midir was more than a match for him. As was Peter. All he could do was simmer with rage and hatred until he boiled over.

Peter wasn’t done taunting him, though. “Gods! I almost forgot! You’ve been _lusting_ after him! A man! How unnatural. How perfectly queer.” A manic giggle. “At least he returns your feelings. Oh, how merry a time I’ve had, watching you two stumble around each other like confused chickens. _He_ doesn’t know what he’s done wrong, only knows that it’s something horrible and violent. _You_ know all too well, and you tiptoe around like you’re on eggshells.”

Stiles felt like he’d been stabbed in the heart. He could only stare at Peter with the deepest despair he’d ever felt.

“The _sweetest_ cruelty was when I threw you in jail. The way you looked to Derek, pleading for him to defend you. Ha! Too bad you couldn’t rot down there a little longer. I could smell the self-loathing on Derek, but now he’s just worried for you—all alone in the Argentum castle. Learning to hate us. To hate him.”

Midir, who had been laughing merrily along, suddenly frowned deeply.

“What—“ He began, deep voice slightly higher with surprise, but Stiles couldn’t hear him. Pain and nausea slammed into him with the force of a runaway horse—he doubled over and clutched at his torso. It felt like he was coming apart from the inside, like his ribs were tearing themselves away from him, one by one. Like his skin and veins were peeling apart.

And suddenly it was gone; cool fingers skipped lightly over his spine and sides. He looked up to see Iceni, worry plainly written on her youthful face. She still wore the body that could’ve belonged to his younger sister.

“Stiles? I’m so sorry,” She said immediately.

“What was that?” Stiles gasped. He felt lightheaded, like his thoughts might float away and carry his head with them.

“I had no idea that Midir would be there. When I realized, it was too late. Midir held you there with his power. I had to get my parents to help me break through. I’m sorry,” She repeated.

“It’s nothing,” Stiles replied. “Many mysteries have been solved tonight.”

Iceni cupped his face in her small palms, giving him a gentle kiss on the forehead. “My poor Stiles. I sent you to your lover and you were faced with Midir the Black.”

Stiles looked down, flushing slightly. He _really_ needed to speak to Derek. But he also had to speak to Iceni, and she was here.

“Iceni?” He asked. “Do you know any way to protect Derek from Peter’s influence?”

Iceni sighed tiredly. “I cannot tell you, Stiles. I do not even know if that is a possibility. Peter is playing with dark magic—Midir’s magic. Their bond has escalated beyond patronage. Midir has shared his godly power. To what end, I cannot guess.”

That, at least, Stiles knew. “They’ve struck a bargain. Peter gives Midir souls—and power—in exchange for his own life. And some of Midir’s power, apparently.”

Iceni looked shocked and horrified. “But—what? Do you mean to say that Midir spared Peter’s soul?”

Stiles nodded gravely.

“Oh no!” She cried. “When a soul is called to the Dark Realms, that soul must go, or it will grow corrupt. It is no wonder that Peter is so mad with greed.”

“Is there something you can do? Is there a Council in the Heavenly Sphere to bring Midir to justice? Surely it is a violation of his duties.” Stiles tried to force himself to not hope, but he failed miserably.

“I wish I could help you, Stiles. Truly, I do. Midir has grown so powerful that the Great Ones cannot best him. That is why you need to deal with Peter. If Peter becomes less powerful, so does his patron. Only when Peter has been beaten can the gods discipline Midir.”

Stiles bit his lip, looking down again. He realized he was in the Heavenly Realm again. The bright, silver-streaked marble was unmistakable.

“Oh gods,” Stiles murmured. “How long have I been up here?”

Iceni favored him with a small smile. “Only a day. Your mortal friends think it is merely exhaustion. I will release you now that it is safe. Midir has left your world.”

Stiles smiled back; he was dearly grateful to her for being such a kind patron. As he tried to tell her so, he realized that her face was growing hazy. Her honey rum eyes blurred and darkened as he watched, and suddenly he was sitting bolt upright in his bed at the Argentum castle.

Allison, who was asleep in his desk chair, jumped half a foot.

“Stiles?” She asked, eyes wide.

“I’m fine,” Stiles said as he stretched. A quiet moan escaped him, unbidden, at the sensation of his long-still body moving again.

“We were worried,” Allison replied, moving to pour him some water.

Stiles drank thirstily and decided to play dumb. “Why?”

“Look around,” Allison gestured to the open window. Slanted rays of sunlight poured through it, giving everything in the room a dark gold cast. “You’ve been sleeping for almost an entire day.”

Stiles frowned. “I’m sorry…It wasn’t intentional.”

Allison grinned. “We know. We tried everything short of physical pain to wake you up. Eventually my father said to just let you sleep it off. Whatever _it_ is.”

Stiles shot her a dark look. “Do you know how long it has been since I’ve slept soundly?”

Suddenly the cuffs of Allison’s shirt were very interesting to her. “You’re right, I’m sorry.” She said without meeting his gaze.

Stiles sighed. “It’s fine. Shall we continue my training? I feel well enough to practice.”

Allison grinned again, wider this time. “I thought you’d never ask.”

 

Stiles fell into a pattern over the next few months. Physical training in the morning—he practiced most with the youngest Argentum recruits at first and slowly moved his way up to those who were only a few years younger than he was—and a more expansive education with Allison in the evenings. He discovered that the brutality of the Argentum was met with equal viciousness from the Hales. For every repulsive custom the Argentum had once had, the werewolves had one to counter it.

Stiles began to realize that what Derek had taught him was heavily biased. Some of the accounts of Argentum horrors against the Hales had direct contradictions in the journals of Argentum members.

He grew more and more confused as time wore on. Did he really want the Hales to rule? Peter certainly wasn’t fit to hold the position, but would Derek be a good king in his stead? If Peter was displaced, Derek was next in line for the throne.

It was messy and awful. He didn’t want any harm to come to Derek, but aside from banishment he wasn’t sure how to secure the throne for a better ruler. And who would be a good ruler? Gerard, Victoria, and Chris seemed intent on Allison’s ascent to the throne, but Stiles wasn’t sure.

Stiles had great love for Allison. Truly, he did. She was a patient teacher and had a kind heart. Furthermore, she had a good mind for strategy and was one of the most determined women he had ever met. On the other hand, she was headstrong, stubborn, and _so_ very young to become queen. She had many lessons to learn.

And she was meant to marry Derek.

His heart clenched at the thought.

Socially, they were a good pair. The Argents were an old noble family and in good standing with the crown (from a third party perspective, of course). They had wealth and connections. Not to mention that the fact that Derek had gone so long without being married was almost an affront to society. Many whispered unsavory rumors about him behind his back. Many more pushed their unmarried daughters on him.

Stiles craved and dreaded the nights that Iceni sent him to the castle. They were few and far between. There was a feeling of _rightness_ he couldn’t deny when he spent the night nestled in Derek’s arms. But he found himself resisting his…feelings. His love. Stiles couldn’t love Derek, could he? He didn’t know who Derek really was. He didn’t know if the kindness Derek showed him was part of Peter’s trickery.

Eventually, he asked Iceni about it.

“Stiles, my dear,” She chewed on her lip for a moment. Stiles imagined she was trying to put words to concepts he couldn’t wrap his mortal head around. “When I send you to the palace, I send only your soul. And you see only Derek’s soul. Peter cannot control him there.”

“But how did Peter know about…us?” Stiles asked.

Iceni shrugged. “Perhaps Midir told him. Perhaps he was in control of Derek one of the times you two met in the physical world.”

Stiles considered this for a moment, recalling the time—was it the first time they had kissed?—when Derek had suddenly pulled away in disgust and had ended their liaison by shoving and threatening him. Pain needled at his heart. He loved Derek when he showed those moments of kindness, but fear welled in Stiles’s gut when he thought of the Derek with flashing red eyes and an angry scowl on his face.

 

He spent six months with the Argentum, finally enough time to equal what he had spent training as Derek’s squire. A year had passed since that awful choosing ceremony.

He celebrated in a quiet sort of way. When he woke up, he cradled the stone pendant Scott had given him and prayed to the gods for his family and friends’ wellbeing. He cut himself some slack during weapons practice; he was nowhere near as proficient as he should be with the double-edged daggers he’d started practicing with recently. He let himself get away with a mediocre set of drills. After practicing with the daggers, he drew Takara and engaged in some vicious sparring with the weapons master.

After months of training, Stiles had matched the other recruits in most fields. His hand to hand fighting was excellent, but he was no Christopher. Allison had him beaten in archery by a mile and a half. Even Lydia had proven herself his better when it came to logic puzzles and strategy. But no one could beat Stiles with Takara in his hands.

The weapons master was the only one who could stand his ground long enough for a decent match. Again and again, though, Stiles bested him. He was invincible with his tachi: it was like the blade knew his opponent’s intentions and moved to counter even before Stiles could process them. After a month of being beaten by Stiles and Takara, the weapons master procured a second tachi and had Stiles spar with that instead.

Stiles was good, but eventually the weapons master disarmed him. Again. And again. And again. Then they switched blades: Stiles took Takara, and his opponent had the second tachi. In the space of a few heartbeats, Stiles pressed Takara lightly against the weapons master’s throat.

He had given a hearty laugh and said, “It seems you’ve found your stride again.”

This, of course, was months ago. They’d quickly given up trying to finesse Stiles’s technique with Takara. Now it was a matter of finding his limits. Every so often, the weapons master would surprise Stiles with some new development. One time he had fought Stiles with a long metal whip. Another time, he’d found two trained dogs and had forced Stiles to keep the dogs at bay while they sparred with blades. And he had Stiles train with up to four opponents at a time.

And, of course, Stiles usually came out on top.

He knew better than to think it was his own skill, so the next time he spoke to Iceni, he asked her about it.

She gave her signature tinkling laugh. “Stiles, that blade is enchanted. In the hands of anyone else, it feels off-balanced and useless. It recognizes you as its master and lets you wield it accordingly.”

And there was his explanation, though it raised more questions than he had time to deal with.

 

Soon after his six month anniversary, there came a turning point in his training. His nineteenth birthday.

He hadn’t planned on any sort of celebration. Just another quiet prayer to the gods and relaxing his own strict standards slightly. However, before he made it down to the training yard, Victoria Argent found him.

She gave him an enigmatic smile. “Stiles. Good to see you. Happy birthday. Would you care to join me for a stroll?”

By now, Stiles knew that many of the questions the Argentum asked were mere formalities. It was clear that he had no real option to refuse.

“Thank you, my lady, and nothing would delight me more,” He said with a smile of his own. He offered his elbow to her, and she gracefully accepted it.

Together they strolled through the castle, nodding hellos at any acquaintances they passed. Stiles allowed Victoria to lead, knowing this wasn’t a social visit. She made polite small talk, though Stiles eventually sensed the tension in her body. After almost an hour of aimless wandering, Stiles felt a sudden purpose in their steps.

They drew near Gerard’s office and Victoria slowed to a stop.

“Stiles, Gerard is going to offer you a mission.” She said in a low, serious voice. Before Stiles could respond, she raised one finger. He swallowed his questions.

“He will pose it as a question, but know that if you refuse, he will turn you over to the Hales.” Stiles felt a deep frown form on his face, but, again, Victoria cut his reply off. “He and Peter have been corresponding. I fear they have made some sort of agreement. I know Gerard’s ultimate goal is to end the Hale line, so I assume he’ll renege on the deal even if Peter keeps to his terms. I don’t know what their arrangement is, but I know you are part of it. Don’t ask.” She said sternly.

Stiles had to fight the desire to roll his eyes, but didn’t ask any of the questions that were practically burning a hole through his lips.

“I don’t know what the mission is, but for your own sake you must accept. You are an outlaw now, and Peter has placed a hefty price on your head. Even if Gerard doesn’t turn you over to the Hales, he could force you to leave the castle. Do you understand the danger you face?”

Stiles nodded.

She favored him with a smile. “Good. I know that you are an intelligent man and I hear that you are an impressive fighter, though I have yet to experience that myself.” Her eyes glimmered mischievously. “I’m sure your skills will make the mission a success, whatever it entails.”

With that, she grabbed his elbow again and steered him to Gerard’s door. She knocked once and then ushered him in, closing the door behind him.

From behind his expansive desk, Gerard smiled and motioned for him to take a seat.

“I trust that Victoria has already told you why I’ve called you here.” He said amiably.

Stiles decided to answer honestly. With a shrug, he said, “She said that you have a mission for me.”

“Is that _all_ she said?” Gerard asked. His smile never wavered.

Stiles met his gaze and nodded, guessing that Gerard would hear the lie in his voice if he spoke.

“Hm…” Gerard mused for a moment, then brightened. “Well, she is nothing if not intelligent. My daughter-in-law is correct. I want you to go on a solo mission for me. You’ve shown that you are both a savvy fighter and an intelligent strategist. I trust your decisions, even if they’re made under stress.”

“A solo mission?” Stiles asked. “Isn’t that only for graduated Argentum?”

Gerard grinned. “Why, yes. This meeting doubles as your graduation ceremony.”

He pulled a box from one of the drawers of his desk. It was made from fine walnut wood and polished to a sheen. There was a small golden latch on the lid, but no lock.

Gerard passed the small box to Stiles, motioning for him to open it. Stiles complied. Inside the box, nestled on a bed of red velvet, was one of the familiar silver Argentum rings. It held a rolled up piece of paper closed. Stiles pulled the paper out of the ring and unrolled it slowly.

“Read it out loud.” Gerard encouraged him. As he spoke, he pulled a decanter of wolfsbane brandy from the same drawer.

Even though part of the oath was written in a foreign language, Stiles didn’t stumble on the familiar words. “Nous chassons ceux qui nous chassent. I pledge my heart, my soul, and my sword to the Argentum.”

Stiles put on the ring.


End file.
